Out of the Night
by BekkaJane
Summary: Adopted from Raining Ink. Between 5th and 6th years, Harry is ready to take his life into his own hands. He's making decisions that will change the course of the war and he's determined to learn the truth about Dark magic. Independent!Harry. Dark!Harry. No pairings.
1. Vernon's Proposal

Attention:

Out of the Night was a Harry Potter fan fiction written by Raining Ink. This fic has been officially abandoned by its author. Obviously, Raining Ink claims no right to characters, settings, concepts, etc… recognizable as belonging to J.K. Rowling or anyone else even vaguely connected with the Harry Potter franchise. However, many other aspects of the story are original to this fic. Fellow fan fiction authors who wish to make use of these concepts/world building/story details/etc… are welcome to do so, provided that they DO NOT in any way profit financially from the use of said ideas. Fan fiction authors wishing to write a continuation of the story are welcome to do so, provided that they DO NOT in any way profit financially from said continuation. Basically, don't use anything that might belong to Raining Ink to make yourself money, mmmkay?

Additionally, Raining Ink requests that continuations of this fic remain accessible to a broad juvenile audience. In other words, please don't use Out of the Night's world or characters to write thinly veiled pornography.

Raining Ink still lurks around the internet and may occasionally Google her own nom de plume. It would be nice if you credited her for any borrowed concepts so that she might one day bump into your work.

If you have any questions, or you'd just like to vent, it will still be possible to contact Raining Ink through her account for some time.

NEW Authors Note by Raining Ink: This was my first ever/only long fan fic. Thank you so very very much for all of you who read, reviewed, offered constructive criticism, or shared this with your friends. It has meant so much to me to be part of a great community of readers and writers. It's time for me now to move on and focus all of my attentions on telling my own story, instead of annexing JK Rowling's. I hate to leave, but I really need to. Maybe one day you'll pick up a book in a shop and read a story that touches you, and you'll wonder if I wrote it. Maybe I will have. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being awesome.

Disclaimer: Anything that JK Rowling thought up in books 1-7 (or Warner Bros. for the movies) isn't mine. The rest of it is, but I'll admit to being influenced by the large amounts of fan fiction I've read. If you think I've stolen something from another story, let me know. Plagiarizing is NOT my intention.

NOTE ON PAIRINGS: The character selection for this fic, whether it currently says Harry & Hermione / Harry & Draco / Harry & Astoria / or any other combination does not reflect a romantic pairing. These are some of the main friendships in the fic, and this is primarily a gen fic. Any romantic attachment will be far in the future, will be het, and will be a minor component of the story at best. Don't worry, you smooch-junkies; just give it a go anyway.

Chapter 1 – Vernon's Proposal

The strained atmosphere in Vernon Dursley's new company car would have been unbearable to Harry if he were not so caught up in his own thoughts. Vernon's knuckles were bloodless on the steering wheel as he drove through traffic on the way to Privet Drive from King's Cross Station, and Petunia's lips were pressed into a tight line. Harry, leaning against the door of the large backseat, noticed none of this. Even if he had, he would have felt none of the dread that had plagued him during previous summers at the thought of his Uncle's anger. Harry Potter was the subject of a prophecy. Away from the eager eyes and expectations of his fellow students, he was finally starting to realize what that meant. The wizards of the world, from the lowliest squib to the great Albus Dumbledore himself, were counting on Harry to save them from the rising darkness.

Harry still couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea, and his emotions couldn't seem to keep up with the shocks that they had had to endure in the past few weeks. Umbridge, the prophecy, the battle with the Death Eaters, Sirius… He had the strongest sense that he was standing at the ultimate fork in his life's road, and that the decisions he would make over the coming days could change everything. He was glad, he realized with some surprise, to be going back to the Dursleys' house. He felt odd, breakable and powerful at the same time somehow, and he needed time away from the pressures of the wizarding world to figure out for himself what he should do with everything he had learned over the past year. For the first summer of his life, Harry really wanted to be alone.

He knew that this desire for solitude would have surprised his friends, but they had no way of knowing just how much he was dealing with. He didn't plan to tell them anytime soon either, even though Dumbledore had not told him to keep the information about the prophecy to himself. Dumbledore. Harry frowned. Most of his affection and loyalty for his headmaster had been destroyed with the revelation of the prophecy. He had always looked up to the man, but the fact that he had kept such important secrets from Harry about his own life showed that the elderly wizard clearly had no respect for him. And, for his part, Harry couldn't respect someone who apparently saw him either as a child to be protected for his own well-being (which Dumbledore claimed was the case) or as a tool to be manipulated for the greater good (which Harry suspected was closer to the truth).

Harry Potter's life was about to get even more complicated than it had been in years past, and no matter what the adults in his life might want him to do, he would not stand idly by and let someone else make his decisions for him.

The car pulled into the driveway of Number 4, and Harry became aware of his relatives for the first time since they had left the train station. Petunia hurried toward the house without saying another word. Harry watched her scurry inside and saw Dudley's beefy face peering through the kitchen window. He heard the car's boot pop open, and he grabbed Hedwig's empty cage from the seat beside him. He had freed the owl before getting into the car; she would be able to stretch her wings and hunt on the flight back to Privet Drive.

Uncle Vernon stood stiffly beside the boot of the car, arms crossed over his thick chest and beady eyes narrowed. He was clearly unwilling to offer his scrawny, abnormal nephew a hand with his heavy trunk, but he appeared equally unable to follow his wife inside, fearing that the new car might be contaminated in some way during his absence. Harry sighed, wishing that the only lightening charm he knew how to cast was strong enough to last more than the couple of hours it took to travel from King's Cross to the Dursley home. As he wrestled with the trunk, he heard Vernon clear his throat behind him.

"Boy," said Vernon. "I need to have a talk with you."

Harry yanked the trunk the rest of the way out of the boot, then turned to stare at his Uncle. For Vernon, that statement had been almost polite. After the threats the Order members had made, Harry was expecting a lot more malice. Making sure he was standing just out of arms' reach, he replied cautiously, "Okay. About what?"

Vernon was looking at him in a most peculiar way. He didn't look angry, he looked…scared and…maybe a little sick? Harry shifted his weight nervously. Vernon looked at Harry for a few seconds more, then he looked quickly around to make sure that none of the neighbors were within listening distance. "It's not right, boy," he said then. "None of it. You…your kind… What right do those freaks have to go around threatening honest, decent, hard-working folk like us?"

Harry had to exert his self-control in order not to snort at Vernon's description of himself as "decent," but he was honestly surprised. Vernon wasn't shouting. This was his business voice, his I've-made-an-important-decision voice that was usually reserved for declaring what chores Harry was to be given for the day. "Errr…" Harry started, not sure whether his uncle's question required a response.

"NONE!" shouted Vernon, seemingly agitated by Harry's uncertainty. "That's what, Boy. They don't have any right to tell me how to run my own house. They don't have any business bossing me around, feeling all high-and-mighty because of their freakishness."

Harry stared at his Uncle, trying to decide how to handle him. Vernon seemed to be waiting for him to comment on the rant, agree with him maybe. Harry just wanted to get upstairs to the smallest room and sleep away his anxieties. He nodded his head a couple of times, hoping that would be sufficient.

Vernon took a step towards him, his mustache puffing and his jowls quivering with some kind of suppressed emotion. Harry stepped back towards the boot, eyeing his uncle warily. When the man spoke, his voice was calm again but filled with absolute conviction. "I hate you, Boy," he said. "I wish you were dead. Your kind doesn't deserve to plague the rest of us with your existence. But you're here, nevertheless. Been here almost fifteen years now, and I hate you a little more every day."

Harry's chest felt oddly tight. He didn't know why Vernon's words should hurt after all this time, but they did. Petunia was watching through the window now with Dudley. His only family…and they could say, quite matter-of-factly, that they would rather he be dead than standing here in their clean, orderly driveway.

"I know you hate us too, Boy," said Vernon. And, Harry did. For the first time, he acknowledged that the only thing he felt toward the Dursleys was unalloyed hatred . It was strange, he thought, to realize that. Vernon's next few sentences drownrd in light of this recognition. When had he stopped wanting-in some secret part of his heart-their acceptance, their approval, their love? Harry didn't think he felt this level of loathing toward anyone else… well, maybe Bellatrix Lestrange.

Vernon's words swam back to the surface, and Harry focused on his face. "So, Boy," he was saying, "Why don't you leave?"

"What?" Harry blinked at him. Leave? Where else would he go?

Vernon took another step toward him, and this time Harry didn't back away. "We hate you. You hate us. You're not a baby anymore, and if you were, I'd dump you at an orphanage no matter what that old crackpot freak demanded. Petunia says we can't throw you out, says you being here protects us as well. I say," he leaned down until he was nose to nose with his nephew, "that's bullshit. I think you're dangerous, and that's why they chuck you back to us every summer. I'm not going to throw you out, Boy, because Pet and the freaks won't let me. But this arrangement we have is a two-way street, isn't it? Why don't you just leave?"

All of the breath in his lungs seemed to have been vacuumed out. Harry stared into the empty space just past Vernon's right ear. What about Voldemort, the Death Eaters, his Order guards? What about his mother's sacrifice and the blood wards around the house? Vernon was wrong. They would all be in danger if the wards fell, and they would fall if he were gone. Harry couldn't just leave. Could he?

He looked to the faces of Dudley and Petunia in the kitchen window and back into his Uncle's watery eyes. He would be putting them all in danger. But they hated each other. He would be putting himself in danger. But not much more than he was in at any other time. The Order would be furious. He looked around at the sunny, perfectly-square houses of Privet Drive. Mrs. Number 9 was watering her begonias…not a care in the world.

"Can I stay here three or four more days?" Harry asked. His voice was surprisingly steady. He couldn't quite believe that he was doing this. "It will take me that long to get everything ready."

Vernon's face split into a terrifyingly huge grin, and he slapped Harry on the back so hard that the thin teen stumbled forward a couple of steps. "Boy," he boomed cheerfully. "Of course you can! You've made the right decision, you know. Better for everyone."

Harry looked on in shock as Vernon stooped to pick up his trunk. "Let's get this upstairs. Three days, you said? Four at the most?"

"Right," said Harry, as he followed a very merry Vernon Dursley into the house.

"Capital!" shouted Vernon. Considering how fat he was, he was practically skipping up the stairs. "If you leave by then, Boy," he said as he heaved Harry's trunk into his room, "I'll give you a fifty-pound note to see you on your way."

And Vernon thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Harry heard him crow to Aunt Petunia, "The boy will be gone by Thursday, Petunia love. Thursday! By Friday, I daresay we won't even remember he was here."


	2. Getting Things Together

Chapter 2 – Getting Things Together

Later that evening, Harry sat on the edge of his rickety bed, staring out the window. He had put out some food and water for Hedwig, but he did not really expect the owl to return for at least a couple of days. He had told her to take her time in hopes that Vernon's anger over the King's Cross incident would have abated before she made an appearance. How was he to know that he would be on such good terms with his uncle this summer? Hedwig would be back in time to take his letter to the Order.

It had been such a strange afternoon. He had agreed to leave the Dursleys, and he felt an increasing sense of relief as the hours passed. It might not be the best decision, but at least he was doing something. A few sheets of parchment lay on the bed next to him, a list of everything he needed to do over the next few days if he wanted to be successful in eluding the Order and surviving on his own for the rest of the summer. He really didn't think four days would be nearly enough time to plan his escape, but Harry thought Vernon might combust if he suggested that he would like to stay for a little longer. His uncle was still in high spirits. He had spent the afternoon rummaging around in the basement, working on old exercise equipment that would be moved into the smallest bedroom "the very moment" Harry left.

This would be so much easier, Harry thought, if he just knew of a place to go. He couldn't go to Grimmauld Place or The Leaky Cauldron. They were too obvious, and he had no clue whether the Order was still using Sirius's old house for headquarters or not. He had even considered the Shrieking Shack, but that was too close to Dumbledore for Harry's liking. Harry knew he would need to stay in the wizarding world. As nice as it might be, he was too vulnerable in the muggle world. Besides, he fully intended to use the unhindered weeks of summer to practice his spellwork, and the only way to do that without being detected by the Ministry's underage sensors was to stay in a highly magical area such as Diagon Alley. But how would he hide in busy, bright, wizard-filled Diagon Alley? It would be crawling with Order members as soon as they realized that he had disappeared, and Harry didn't know any glamour charms.

Sighing, Harry flicked off the lamp beside his bed. It was early, but he was exhausted. Tonight, he would sleep. Everything could be figured out in the morning when he was less muzzy-headed.

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Harry woke late on Monday morning feeling lighter than he had in a long while. It was summer, he had weeks to figure out what to do about the prophecy, and he was leaving Privet Drive forever in a matter of days. For breakfast, he ate the last of the cauldron cakes he had saved from the Hogwarts Express, and then he sat down with his pages of parchment and a ballpoint pen to plan his escape.

Leaving the Dursleys' house without being spotted by whoever was on guard duty for the Order shouldn't be too difficult. He had his invisibility cloak, and it was a slim chance that Mad-Eye would be the one assigned to babysit him on the day in question. Even if he was, thought Harry, what did it matter? The Order's goal was to keep Death Eaters away from the house, not to keep Harry cooped up inside. After all, they weren't expecting him to run off. As long as he didn't look like he was leaving for good, they would just assume he was going for a walk around Little Whinging or running an errand for Petunia.

But where would Harry go once he left? When the answer came to him he almost couldn't believe that it had come from his own head. It seemed so reckless, so stupid, but the Order would never guess. They would never think to look for their Savior there. He couldn't stay in Diagon Alley because they would expect it, but…what about Knockturn Alley? He shuddered at his last memory of the place. Everyone sinister and heavily cloaked even in summer. Hags with platters of human fingernails and other, more questionable products.

It was an awful idea, Harry was sure. Certainly, the Order would be unlikely to find him, but it would be much worse if the kind of people who frequented Knockturn became aware of his presence. On the other hand, he would be able to practice magic all summer. There was no way that the Ministry could keep track of his wandwork in the midst of so much dark wizardry. And, Harry thought uneasily, Knocturn Alley was sure to be full of books on dark magic. Wouldn't it be a good idea for him to at least know what kind of spells his enemies might be using against him?

Harry had been wondering about this in the back of his mind since Umbridge's shambles of a defense class started. The Ministry defined dark magic didn't they? Or was it just purely evil in its own right? If the Ministry had anything to do with saying what was or was not dark, then Harry thought he should at least look into it for himself. He didn't even know what dark magic was, except for heavy curses like the Unforgivables, and there was no way for him to get that information at Hogwarts or in Diagon Alley. He couldn't even imagine the horror on the faces of Hermione or any of the Weasleys if he asked about it.

Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, he wrote on his to-do list: "Look for an inn in Knockturn Alley" and "Learn how to do a glamour charm."

An hour later, Harry looked his list up and down and sighed. He needed to go to Diagon Alley this afternoon if he wanted to make this work. None of his old school books had glamour charms in them. From what he could tell, they were borderline illegal, and only a simple, easily penetrable version was taught to NEWT charms students. He would need to learn a much more impressive glamour charm in the next couple of days if he wanted to hide in Knockturn Alley. He also needed a new wardrobe, since his Hogwarts robes would stick out like a sore thumb. Wearing muggle clothes around the alley would be suicidal. Harry looked at his watch. It was just past noon. He could make it to Diagon Alley and be back home by late tonight if he left now.

Twenty minutes later, a nervous Aunt Petunia opened the front door on the pretext of stepping out to check on her roses, and Harry slipped silently past her in his invisibility cloak, whispering a quiet "thanks" to her as he left. Under the cloak, he wore an old ball cap of Dudley's to cover his scar and a tatty canvas backpack that he had last used in primary school. To be safe, he walked eight blocks before he removed his invisibility cloak and another five blocks before he stuck out his wand arm to summon the Knight Bus.

With a fantastic BANG, the triple-decker appeared by the curb, and Harry was on his way to Diagon Alley.

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Diagon Alley was crowded. Harry had planned on taking off his cloak once he arrived, but after seeing the number of his schoolmates that were packing the streets in an apparent state of post-Hogwarts bliss, he decided against it. It was strange. For every group of rowdy children and teens he saw, there seemed to be a group of subdued adults talking in hushed whispers. As he slipped by these huddles, he caught snatches of conversation.

"Back…he's back…not letting the children out after dark…did you hear?…Harry Potter…the Ministry… can't believe!….Savior….Chosen One…."

Harry's skin crawled every time he heard the reverence in the voices when they said that last one. The Chosen One. He felt sick at the thought. Why did they expect so much from him? He was fifteen! They were adult wizards. It was absurd to think that they were all counting on him, when he hadn't even finished school yet.

By the time he managed to weave his way to Gringott's, he had a splitting headache. He groaned as he heard his name yet again. This time from a girl holding onto her mother's hand as they approached Gringott's. She looked about eleven years old. "And, mum," she was saying, "he's simply the best seeker at school. I wish I was in Gryffindor. He seems really nice."

"Of course, darling," her mother muttered absently as she tugged her daughter through the doors.

"Why do you think he never answered my letters?" she asked. Harry noted that the girl looked pouty. "I've sent him at least a half dozen. I wanted to ask him, but what if he was offended?"

"Honestly, Rebecca," Harry heard the mother say. "I doubt he answers any of his fan mail. He must get buckets of owls you know…"

What was that about? Harry shook his head in bemusement. Fan mail? Him? Well, it did make sense he supposed. He had gotten a lot of letters in response to that Quibbler article. Harry frowned. Wait a minute… Why hadn't he ever received fan post except when an article had been written about him in the paper? Not that he would like to be swamped with owls, but surely people decided to send the "Boy-Who-Lived" owls on occasion. Rebecca obviously had. It was yet another thing that needed to be looked into. He suspected Dumbledore's involvement. After all, it would have been very inconvenient if owls had dropped off magical post at the Dursley house when he was a child. Harry growled in annoyance, startling a passing shopper who looked around in fright for the source of the sound. Dumbledore had no business micromanaging his life to that level. At fifteen, he should certainly have access to his own mail.

Harry walked up to the doors of Gringotts and stopped next to one of the goblin guards. He had a feeling that goblins wouldn't take kindly to an invisible person walking into their bank, but there was always a chance that Bill Weasley might be present in the lobby. That wouldn't do at all. "Errrmm… Hello," Harry said to the goblin without removing his cloak.

The goblin jumped a bit, but in a matter of seconds he had regained his previous surly demeanor. "What do you want?" he asked the apparently empty air in front of him. The goblin on the other side of the double doors was staring at his fellow guard in confusion.

"Well," Harry whispered, "I need to go to the bank, but if I'm seen by anyone it's likely to cause quite a commotion. Is there any way that I can do my banking without removing my invisibility cloak?"

The goblin's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That depends. Who are you?"

Harry shrugged underneath the cloak. What did it matter if the goblin knew? "Harry Potter."

The goblin's eyes widened a bit, then he nodded. "Hold out your hand," he demanded.

Harry stuck a few fingers of his left hand out from under the cloak. The goblin leaned close to the hand, as though he were going to examine Harry's finger prints, then without any warning whatsoever, the guard bit Harry's index finger. Harry yelped and pulled his hand back under the cloak, fumbling for his wand.

"Stop squawking!" snapped the goblin. "I had to make sure you were Harry Potter, didn't I?"

"You bit me!" Harry managed to control the volume of his voice, but it was more than a little shrill. Were goblin bites poisonous?

The goblin turned his nose up. "Well I'll admit, there are fancier ways of determining your identity, Mr. Potter; but beggars can't be choosers."

The goblin pulled a small glass cube out of his vest pocket and spoke into it. "I have an invisible high-profile client at the front door."

The glass cube glowed briefly white and another goblin voice replied. "Acknowledged, Greblak. A cart operator will be with the client shortly."

"Oh," said Harry. He wrapped his bloody finger up in the side of his t-shirt. "Thanks, Greblak."

"Gringotts prides itself on its security, Mr. Potter," the goblin boasted. "All door guardians are trained in client identification."

"Err…right," said Harry, whose finger was beginning to throb.

Greblak grinned in Harry's direction, showing every one of his pointed teeth. "You'd taste lovely with a nice cabernet."

Before he could decide to be affronted by this statement, a harried looking goblin that Harry recognized as Griphook walked up. "Who is it Greblak?" he asked.

"Harry Potter."

Griphook nodded, and made a beckoning motion with his hand. "Follow me, Mr. Potter. I assume you wish to make a withdrawal?"

Harry entered Gringotts marble entry hall after the goblin. He nodded before he realized that Griphook could not see him. "Yes, please Griphook," he said.

The goblin led him to the carts that conveyed Gringotts customers to their vaults, and Harry wondered about the question. He was really only here to make a withdrawal, but what other services did the bank offer?

"Is there a brochure or something that would tell me about bank services?" asked Harry as they climbed into a cart. Now that they were out of sight of the other clientele, he had removed his cloak.

Griphook looked annoyed at the prospect of having a conversation, but he answered, "Gringotts services have not changed in the past three hundred and forty-eight years. There is no need for a brochure, Mr. Potter."

"Oh," said Harry. The cart was already zipping around the track's hairpin curves. "Well," he said testily, "I haven't been around for that long. Do you think you could fill me in?"

Harry wasn't sure whether the grinding noises he heard came from the cart or from Griphook's teeth. "Gringotts deals with every aspect of wizarding wealth," he said. "This includes but is not limited to: savings accounts, trust funds, Old Family vaults, stock options, inheritance verification, special items protection, currency exchange, and blood records."

The young wizard pondered this list as they stopped at his vault. Griphook opened the door, and he began to load a sack with galleons. "What if I wanted to know how much money I had?" he asked.

"The Potter accounts are worth approximately 25,000 galleons," said Griphook. Seeing Harry open his mouth to ask another question, he added, "That's about 90,000 British pounds."

Harry smiled. It was more than he had thought it would be. He wouldn't be able to buy anything he wanted, but he could live comfortably for the next couple of summers without having to find work somewhere. Another question occurred to him, "Okay, so what about blood records? What does that mean?"

"It goes along with inheritance verification. Utilizing samples of a wizard's blood, we are able to determine their heritage up to sixteen generations back. We maintain records of these heritages."

"Why?"

Griphook rolled his eyes. "Pureblood families trust our records more than those that are available at the Ministry. They occasionally come to us before finalizing marriage contracts."

"Oh," said Harry. "What if I wanted to…"

"Mr. Potter," Griphook cried in frustration. "Please make your withdrawal and get back in the cart!"

Harry was miffed. "Alright, but how do you expect me to know these things?"

"The only service we offer that might be of interest to you would, in fact, be inheritance verification. I am only a cart operator. If you wish to have a heritage test performed I will set up an appointment for you, and arrange for an owl to notify you of the date and time."

Harry thought about it. What harm could it do? The Potters were an old wizarding family, he might learn something interesting. "Thanks, Griphook," he said as he climbed into the cart. "I'd appreciate that."

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Harry spent the rest of his day in Diagon Alley in a seedy little second-hand shop. It wasn't his first choice of shopping venue, but it was the least crowded store in the alley. The shop was so crammed full of junk that customers had to weave their way through the stacks, sometimes even climbing over furniture and trunks to get to other parts of the store. It was almost impossible to be recognized in a place like this. He only had one close call when Colin Creevey walked into the store to look at a display of used cameras. Harry had to hide in a musty coat rack for fifteen minutes while Colin browsed.

Eventually, Harry picked out a set of plain black robes and a hooded cloak and spent the rest of his shopping time going through a bin of old books in the back of the store. He finally found a battered copy of Charms for Charmers, which had a great selection of appearance-altering and glamour charms for people who wanted to "woo that special someone."

Before he went to check out, Harry decided to try out some of the charms just to make sure the old woman at the cash register wouldn't recognize his face. He stood in the most cramped, abandoned corner of the store behind a broken grandfather clock, facing a cracked wall-mounted mirror. Half an hour later, feeling extremely self-conscious, Harry emerged. His hair had been lengthened about six inches so that it hung over his forehead and around his face in a wild mess. His nose was more aquiline, and his signature green eyes were a muddy brown. Harry had tried to change the shape of his face as well, but he couldn't seem to get the hang of it. The shop lady checked him out without commenting, so Harry decided it wouldn't draw too much attention to ask a few questions.

"I'm looking for an inn to stay at," he said. "Do you know of a place around here?"

The old woman blinked pale blue eyes and bared all three of her teeth at him. "Cauldron's right down the end of the street," she wheezed. "Only place in Diagon for a bed and a cuppa."

Harry shoved his purchases into his backpack. "I had a falling out with the owner," he lied. "I'm not welcome there anymore, so I'm looking for another inn."

The crone glared knowingly at him. "Two inns in Knockturn," she said after a moment. "There's the Magna, that's a place for posh sorts. Bad sorts…but posh. Don't imagine they'd let you sweep the stoop." She laughed. "Only other inn's the Doxy Closet. Far end of Knockturn Alley. Cheap. Not too dirty. Still…probably not what you're looking for."

"It sounds fine," said Harry. Why did the old woman seem so amused? "Can I get directions?"

"You go down Knockturn Alley, kid," she said, still chortling. "Keep walking 'til you get almost to the end, and turn right down Daemon Lane. It's got a board with a doxy on it out front. You can't miss it."


	3. Endings and Beginnings

Chapter 3 - Endings and Beginnings

Harry didn't try to find the Doxy Closet that day. He went back to Privet Drive, pleased but exhausted, and fell into bed. He spent all day Tuesday studying Charms for Charmers. He couldn't cast the spells, but he memorized the words and the wand movements for everything that looked useful. Harry suspected that the spells in the book weren't exactly ethical, but he thought they were all the more intriguing for it. He didn't plan to woo anyone anytime soon, but he could imagine a variety of other uses for the charms. In addition to basic glamour charms, the book contained minor compulsion spells ("to get your sweetheart on the right track") and attraction charms ("effortless popularity and desirability"). He even found a spell to "give your eyes a lovely twinkle" that he felt sure Dumbledore used from time to time.

An owl arrived from Gringotts late that afternoon, and Harry gladly took a break from his studying to read the letter it carried.

Mr. Potter,

The Gringotts Office of Inheritance and Blood Records has accepted your request for a heritage test. Please be advised that heritage evaluations are always conducted after standard business hours in order to ensure the utmost privacy for our clients. The enclosed portkey will activate at 9:00 PM tomorrow night. It will take you to your vault, where bank representatives will meet you to perform the test. At the conclusion of the examination, you will receive a certified copy of your blood record. The cost of this service is 350 galleons.

At Your Service,

Snagtooth

Chief Inheritance Officer

Harry was surprised. He had almost forgotten that he had asked Griphook to schedule him an appointment with the Inheritance Office, and he really hadn't anticipated that the service would be so pricey. He didn't expect to learn anything terribly valuable from it, and it seemed like a lot of money to pay just to satisfy his curiosity about his family. Then again, using the service would probably be worth it just for the access to the portkey. Harry hummed happily at the thought. He wouldn't have to sneak into Diagon Alley this time or bother with the Knight Bus. The goblins would port him directly to Gringotts. As long as he had everything ready to go by tomorrow night, he could leave Privet Drive once and for all without much fuss at 9:00 PM. There was no need to worry about the Order tracking him either. He highly doubted that the paranoid goblins would have sent him a portkey that could be traced back to the depths of their bank.

Harry smiled at the thought. Tomorrow night, he would be more free than he had ever been before.

[][][][][][]

It took Harry two hours the next morning to pack everything he would need to take with him. Hedwig returned before noon, and he sent off a brief but unsuspicious letter to the Order. With any luck, it would take at least a few days for the wards around the house to fall completely. Harry, feeling charitable, had warned Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that this would happen, but he didn't think the Dursleys would take his advice and move to another location. Hopefully, by the time the Order of the Phoenix realized Harry had left, the trail would be three days cold, the wards would be on the verge of failing, and any chance of returning Harry Potter to 4 Privet Drive for his own good would be long gone.

It seemed like 9 o'clock would never come. When Vernon arrived home at six, he stomped up the stairs to Harry's room and knocked on the door. "Soon boy?" he asked hopefully.

"I'll be gone in exactly three hours," said Harry.

Vernon's expression was blissful. "I never want to see you again, boy," he said pleasantly. "Mind you don't come back asking for handouts or anything like that."

Harry smiled bitterly. "Don't worry," he said shortly. "I never want to see you again either."

"That's the spirit, boy! Excellent! Strike out on your own, and don't look back." He shoved a meaty fist into his pocket and pulled out fifty pounds. "I would say I wish you the best, but I don't," he said as he forced it into Harry's hand.

"Right," said Harry. It was the last time he ever spoke to Vernon. Petunia didn't even bother to come upstairs. At precisely 9 o'clock, Harry felt a sharp jerk behind his navel. He, his trunk, and all his worldly possessions vanished from Privet Drive. When the Dursleys walked upstairs and peered cautiously into the room at 9:15, there was no sign that Harry Potter had ever been there.

Vernon leaned down to kiss his wife. When they broke apart, Petunia spoke. "Take out the bedding and the desk. We'll burn them."

[][][][][][]

Goblins, thought Harry, did not like questions. He was met in his vault (which had been outfitted with comfortable chairs and a table for the occasion) by two goblins in pale blue lab coats who had demanded that he remove his robes and shirt at once in order to "prepare for the procedure." Harry thought it was perfectly natural to want to know everything he could about a test that required him to stand around in nothing but his pants. The goblins, Knacklebrat and Cursentog, seemed to disagree.

"Really, Mr. Potter!" one of them shouted as he waved a sharp metal instrument around. "You are the one who requested the evaluation. Please allow us to get on with it!"

"I only want to know what you're going to do," Harry said placatingly. "Just tell me the basics before you start poking me with those things."

"We are not going to poke you, Mr. Potter," said the other goblin. "Heritage testing is based on blood and magic. We will be cutting you to draw blood at several key points in the spinal and abdominal regions to ensure the most accurate reading."

"Then what?"

The goblin holding the metal tool seemed to be getting frenzied. The other one sighed. "Then we will conduct the test on the blood samples using a variety of highly guarded spells and potions. At the conclusion of the test, if any significant heritages are discovered, we will show you how to go about claiming them."

"Claiming them?"

"It's not about money or anything of that nature, Mr. Potter. Some wizarding family lines must be…properly acknowledged…if an heir wishes to gain the benefits of blood and magic offered by association with that family. Now please take a seat so we may begin."

After it was over, Harry reflected that it wasn't so bad. It was weird to be standing in the middle of a pile of gold while goblins carefully cut lines into his flesh and caught the blood in little silver bowls, but it could have been worse. It hurt a little, but they healed each cut carefully after they had finished and forced Harry to sit back down and drink a cup of pumpkin juice while he waited for the results.

"We've got one," said Cursentog after nearly an hour of studying the blood.

"Really?" asked Knacklebrat, his eyes widening. "Which family?"

"Peverell."

"Ah," said Knacklebrat, "That's not going to do him much good. Is there anything else?"

"No, just the expected. It's a bit purer than I anticipated. His mother must have had some magic in the bloodline."

Harry had been nearly dozing in the comfortable wingback chair the goblins had provided, but now he was wide awake. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Cursentog began packing up his equipment as Knacklebrat turned to Harry. "It means that if you wanted to do so you could claim membership into the Peverell family. However, I doubt that you would want to."

"I've never heard of them," said Harry.

"They were fairly well-to-do until the last heir died in the mid-18th century. There are some quite charming fairytales associated with them. Gringotts does not maintain a Peverell vault, but we do have a standard heritage acceptance potion and a signet ring in storage for any claimants."

"So, I'm related to them…the Peverells? What would happen if I took the potion?"

Knacklebrat stroked his pointy chin as he considered the question. "Heritages are tricky things," he said. "No wizard reacts in an entirely predictable way to accepting one. Normally, it's nothing very special…an increase in some minor talents, maybe even a sudden interest in a field of study that was previously uninteresting. The Peverells, for example, were noted for their exceptional night vision. That's the sort of attribute that would normally bleed over. It's quite a strong relation too," he said as he looked over the parchment Cursentog had handed him, "so you would likely get a little more out of it than most. But, it's a moot point for you, Mr. Potter."

"Why?"

"Because, Mr. Potter, the Peverell family was traditionally a Dark family. The heritage would be a Dark heritage."

Harry's mind seemed to go into overdrive. Dark. His heritage, if he accepted it, would be Dark. What did that mean? People weren't born Dark wizards were they? Wasn't it a matter of choice? Obviously, the goblins expected him to refuse the inheritance because of it, so there must be more to it than that.

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I don't understand. What do you mean the heritage is Dark? What would happen to me if I accepted it?"

Knacklebrat's look was calculating. "I don't know exactly," he admitted after several seconds of contemplation. "Most non-Dark wizards wouldn't accept a Dark heritage. The combination might be rather volatile."

"Dark wizards aren't like other wizards, Mr. Potter," Cursentog said as he looked up from the bowls he was cleaning. "I don't mean that horseshit that the Ministry spouts off about good and evil and all that rot. I mean at the most basic level. They've got a fundamentally different understanding about how wizards ought to interact with magic."

Knacklebrat nodded in agreement. "Dark wizardry is steeped in traditions that have been left behind by most wizards in these times. Families pass down these customs. They train their children to use their magic in a certain way, until eventually children born into those families are much more inclined to perceive magic in a uniquely Dark manner."

This was fascinating. Harry had never learned any of this before, and he had a feeling that the goblins were being more honest about the differences between the two types of wizards than anyone else ever would be. "So people are…born Dark?" he asked.

The goblins seemed to confer silently with one another for awhile. "To an extent," said Knacklebrat eventually. "It would be very difficult for someone from a truly Dark family to turn away from that heritage, very unnatural for them. But one doesn't have to be born into one of the families in order to be Dark. A person can choose to follow the traditions and the way of magic on their own. It's just…uncommon."

Cursentog grunted. "More like unheard of," he said.

"So I could accept the heritage and still choose for myself couldn't I?" Harry asked.

"Why would you want to risk a magical imbalance like that, Mr. Potter?" asked Knacklebrat. "The Potter heritage is extremely anti-Dark. The two magics, the two bloods…they would never mesh properly."

"It might work," said Cursentog, a fierce gleam in his eyes.

"It would be far too dangerous for us to recommend…"

"Come now, Knacklebrat, you know you're just as curious as I am. Ideally, you would develop a sort of double persona, Mr. Potter. You might be able to shift between the two heritages at will, retaining your same mind and soul but developing an understanding for both types of magic."

"The duality would never last," Knacklebrat argued. "He would eventually develop a strong leaning toward one type of magic. One can't straddle that particular fence for very long."

"Yes, of course," said the other. "But, he might be able to maintain the weaker heritage as a kind of veneer to cover the stronger one if he needed to. Just think of the possibilities!"

Harry's head was spinning as he watched the two of them argue. A "double persona" they said. He was definitely no Dark wizard, but he was curious. He would have the opportunity to learn more about the division between Dark and Light. And…some rebellious part of Harry wanted to do this thing that he knew would horrify everyone he cared about. He knew it was dangerous, but he wanted it anyway. Taking the heritage wouldn't make him Dark, after all. The goblins seemed to be saying that it would be more like a tendency, and Harry figured that he already had a tendency. Being mentally connected to Voldemort surely qualified, so how could this hurt more than that?

Even disregarding the issue of Dark and Light, the Peverell heritage was something that was already a part of him, just waiting to be awoken. It was his, and the thought of leaving something about himself locked deep within him disturbed him. He looked up to the two goblins who were now babbling in Gobbledegook. Well, he thought, Gryffindor's were known for spur of the moment decision making. "I want to do it," he said firmly.

The goblins stopped arguing and turned to look at him. "I want to claim the heritage."


	4. Mr Peverell Would Like a Room

Chapter 4: Mr. Peverell Would Like a Room

In short order, Harry was kneeling in the middle of a circular marble rune inlaid into the floor of Ritual Room 1, deep in the bowels of Gringotts. The acceptance potion, which looked like water to Harry, was in a crystal goblet on the floor in front of him. A parchment with a written version of the Peverell family acknowledgment lay beside it. At the goblins' instruction, Harry drank the potion and recited the acknowledgment:

I, Harry James Potter, claim the heritage of the Peverell family. I accept the heritage in blood, in memory, and in magic. I will take the name Peverell as one of my own, never to bring it shame. I am of the Peverell line, and this is my right.

Harry felt warm all over, as though he had suddenly been immersed in a hot bath. Something unidentifiable was sweeping through him, altering him in small ways; and although he thought this should frighten him, he felt good. Alert and peaceful at the same time. After a couple of minutes, the bathtub sensation faded, and Harry stood up.

"Well," said Cursentog in satisfaction. "It didn't kill him."

They gave him a small box which they said held the Peverell family signet ring and a stack of papers which were the certified copies of his blood records. "Don't put the ring on until tomorrow night," advised Knacklebrat. "It would be bad form. It usually takes twenty-four hours for the potion to do everything it's going to do, so you won't be a full Peverell until then. Should any other claimants to the line show up…"

"That's not likely," Cursentog interrupted.

"But if they do," said Knacklebrat, "You'll be expected to donate your blood for the creation of another heritage acceptance potion. You will remain the main Peverell heir with whatever that might entail, but other heirs will still be able to share in the family name and magics if they choose."

"Alright," said Harry. He began to gather his things together. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Not really. As I said, the heritage will be in full force by this time tomorrow night, but it's already active now. If you have achieved a split heritage, you should be able to make some changes in your appearance or casting just by shifting your mental perception of yourself."

"What?"

"If you feel more like you're a Potter, then that heritage will come to the forefront. If you feel more like a Peverell, then that one will. The differences between the two will be slight. It's really quite simple."

Cursentog cleared his throat. "Who should I list you as for record keeping purposes?" Seeing Harry's blank look, he clarified, "Your name. Traditionally, you would call yourself Harry James Peverell Potter, but given the unprecedented nature of your situation, choosing a separate name for the Peverell family would be advisable. What would you like to call yourself?"

"Greek or Roman names and their derivatives would be best, Mr. Potter," added Knacklebrat. "Those are the most common in pureblood circles."

"Ummm…" Harry muttered. A new name? Well, he would have to have one anyway to live in Knockturn Alley. Maybe he should just stick with the same initials? What was a pureblood name that didn't sound completely ridiculous? "Hephaestus," he said at last, wincing at the thought of calling himself that, "I'll be Hephaestus Peverell."

[][][][][][]

Harry was surprised to find that Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley were very different places at night. Hooded and cloaked, he left Gringotts at 11:30 PM and stepped out into a mostly empty street. Very few lights shone in the windows of Diagon Alley, and those that did were mostly those of small flats above some of the shops. The glow from the Leaky Cauldron seemed a vague, weak thing in the distance. The alley looked grimy and bereft without the usual press of bodies.

When he arrived at Knockturn Alley, he thought for a moment that he had turned down the wrong road. He hadn't been expecting anything like this. Twice as many witches and wizards roamed the street as the last time he had been here in second year. Most of the stores appeared to be open and doing a good business. The smell of food wafted from vendors' stands, making Harry realize that he hadn't eaten since lunch at the Dursleys, which seemed like a lifetime ago. Eerie music floated on the night breeze out of a pub about a hundred meters away, and the reedy voice of an elderly man could be heard crying, "Poisonous toadstools. All varieties. Half-off tonight!"

Harry pulled out his wand, pointed it at his face, and whispered, "Inmemorse," a spell that Charms for Charmers had called an "unmemorable charm." It worked sort of like a notice-me-not spell. The book had recommended it for covering up pimples or scars, but Harry could tell by the burning tingle he felt all over his face that it worked over larger areas as well. Unlike the notice-me-not spell, this one didn't prevent others from becoming aware of his presence. Instead, it altered their perception of his face, causing his features to slip from memory almost as soon as a person registered them. Someone who looked at him would see that he was Harry Potter, but they wouldn't be able to hold onto the idea for even a second at a time.

He hadn't planned on using this spell tonight. He thought it might be Dark magic, and he was a little uncomfortable with the idea of fiddling with other peoples' memories; but with the crowded, well-lit street in front of him he didn't see much choice. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk down Knockturn Alley.

He had gone only a few yards before a heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to see three rough-looking men dressed head to toe in dark gray robes. His heart seemed to pause in his chest. He could barely make out their faces under their low hoods, but he couldn't mistake the sinister feeling that seemed to be a part of their very presence. One of the men held the chain of some sort of creature that looked like a hairless wolf with red eyes.

"You're in the wrong place, kid," rumbled the one who had grabbed his shoulder. "Your kind isn't welcome here at night."

The wolf-like creature was growling low in its throat, and Harry couldn't help but notice the long strands of saliva hanging from its yellow fangs. Harry swallowed out of habit. His mouth was completely dry. A couple of hard-eyed hags had stopped to watch the confrontation. Harry didn't know how to handle this. At least they didn't seem to recognize him. How would the type of person who would be welcomed in Knockturn Alley deal with this?

The image of Professor Snape sneering down at him popped into his mind. Knowing that he would hate himself for this later, Harry drew himself up to his full height (wishing as he did so that he wasn't one of the shortest boys in his year) and said in a cold, controlled voice, "I beg your pardon? Just what kind do you think I am?"

The man didn't seem to be put off by Harry's show of confidence. One of his companions hissed through his teeth and whispered, "…probably a Ministry spy, Rukus. Best to do him in quick like."

Harry glared at the man in perfect imitation of the look that Snape always reserved for him during the start of term feast. "What a clever observation!" he jeered. "Do the idiots at the Ministry regularly send people my age to infiltrate Knockturn Alley after dark, or do you think I'm a special case?"

The one called Rukus leaned back on his heels, studying Harry. "We keep track of who comes and goes in the alley at night. It's our job to determine whether unfamiliar people might be…unwanted. Who are you, and what business do you have here?"

"My name," said Harry with an arrogance he didn't feel, "is Hephaestus Peverell. My business is, quite frankly, none of your business. I am on my way to the Doxy Closet for the evening."

The one holding the wolf-thing's chain snickered at this, and Rukus raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little young for that?" he asked.

This question was confusing. "I'm older than I look," Harry said, "and I'm certainly old enough to rent a room if I want."

"I suppose so," said Rukus. "Fine, kid. You go on then, but the rest of the watch will be on the lookout for you, so don't try anything."

With that, the three men were gone, and the small group of people who had stopped to watch dispersed. Harry had to take several deep breaths before he walked on. The farther he walked the more surreal Knockturn Alley seemed to become. It was every bit as exotic and new as Diagon Alley had been when he was eleven. Most of the stores were open, and yellow light spilled out into the street. It was quieter than Diagon Alley in the day time, but there was still a steady murmur of voices around him. The window displays didn't have the cheerfulness of those he had seen at stores like Flourish and Blotts, but many of them were beautiful in their own ways. Poisoned candles burned with flames in every color of the rainbow. Ruby and citrine hued fairies fluttered prettily in small glass boxes, and vials of every potion imaginable sparkled in torchlight. An entire herd of real miniature horses ran in circles in one windowsill. And even the things that weren't pretty were…well, interesting at least. Hanks of human hair "plucked by the root" dangled from the apothecary's window, a set of charmed rune knives traced intricate patterns in a pit of sand, and fist-sized blobs of molten wax seemed to be breathing in the front display of Rosemary's Reagents.

When Harry turned down Daemon Lane, he spotted the Doxy Closet immediately. It was a tall, narrow building that had been painted pitch black, and a large signboard with a crudely drawn picture of a doxy was propped against the front wall. The most remarkable feature of the building, however, was the color of the windows. Harry stared. They were large, there were many of them, and they were all a very feminine shade of pink. The light coming through these windows from the inside stained the stores on either side of it, and the street in front of it, a delicate rose.

Harry felt his face heat up as he realized something else about his destination for the night. The Doxy Closet was obviously a whorehouse. Suddenly, the comments of the Knockturn watch made sense. Raucous laughter and playful screams sounded from inside, and a couple of scantily-robed witches called to passerby. Harry only considered turning back for a moment before he realized that he had nowhere else to go.

The inside of the Doxy Closet was, thankfully, much more tasteful than the outside, and if Harry ignored what was going on in the dark corners of the common area, he could almost imagine that it was nothing more than an inn. A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, spelled not to give off any heat during the summer, and several wizards (a couple of them actually looked like vampires) were sitting around a long table and drinking from heavy mugs. Harry was just looking for someone to ask about a room, when a heavily made-up woman in revealing green satin robes swept up to him. Her eyes smoldered as she laid a hand on his arm. "What can I do for you, love?"

Harry felt his blush return full force. "I just…errr, that is to say…I need a room for the night," he stuttered.

"Sure thing, honey," she replied with a dazzling smile. "Come with me."

"Just a room, though," Harry blurted out. "I don't want…anything else." He wondered if he could actually blush hard enough to break through the inmemores charm.

The woman laughed. "I knew what you meant, love. About half our business is just the inn, though most folk know to come for that during the daytime. It gets sort of loud at night."

Harry didn't trust himself to speak, so he followed her in silence to a tall cabinet behind the bar. She opened it to reveal a number of room keys pegged to a board. "You'll want one of the more remote rooms, I guess?" she asked. "There's not so much coming and going up on the attic level, so you can have a nice sleep."

"That sounds fine Ms…"

"Aren't you sweet!" she squealed then patted him on the cheek. "It's just Cora, honey. No need for the miss bit." She handed him a key. "Room 413. All the way up the stairs, then right. It's five galleons a night, and if you're up by six you can have a nice breakfast with us down here."

Harry thanked her and paid for the night, then headed upstairs to his room. Room 413 was small, and the ceiling sloped with the roofline. It was only basically furnished with a twin-sized bed, a chest of drawers, a side table and a lamp. The windows, thankfully, were not pink from the inside. Harry enlarged his trunk and slid it into place at the foot of the bed. He cast a standard locking charm on the door, making a mental note to learn stronger spells soon, then stripped out of his clothes.

After showering in the tiny bathroom and putting on a too-big Westham tee shirt that Dean had given him as a Christmas gift last year, Harry sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. It was cramped, dusty, and loud. But, it was more than he had ever had to himself at Privet Drive, and he could use as much magic as he wanted to in order to make it more livable. He would look up how to perform a silencing ward and a few cleaning spells tomorrow. Most importantly, Harry realized, no one here expected anything of him. He could come and go as he pleased, and nobody would care. He could be Hephaestus Peverell, a teenager without a destiny hanging over his head, all summer. Smiling, he lay back and pulled the sheets up over himself.

It was the best sleep he had had in a long time.


	5. The Doxy Closet

Chapter 5 – The Doxy Closet

Harry would have gladly slept through his first day of freedom if he hadn't been awakened by a knock on his door just before six o'clock in the morning. Groaning as he rolled out of bed, he threw the robes he had worn yesterday on over his nightshirt and grabbed his wand from the nightstand. He opened the door half way through an impatient second knocking, and was momentarily disoriented to see a petite blonde girl wearing a wispy purple something that looked to him like a belly dancer's outfit with a cape. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than Harry. And he couldn't help but notice, even in his sleep-deprived state, that the girl resembled Fleur Delacour…just with more risqué clothing than the French witch would ever wear.

"Like what you see?" asked the girl, raising an eyebrow.

"It's really early," Harry said stupidly. He could already feel a blush coming on.

The girl giggled. "Cora's right. You are kind of cute. You wanna come downstairs for breakfast? Cora reckoned you looked like you could use a bite to eat."

As if in answer to the question, Harry stomach gurgled loudly. The girl laughed again and said, "I guess that means yes. I'm Bette, by the way. Bette Simon."

Harry opened his mouth to introduce himself, then stopped, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't recast inmemores since last night. It only had a two-hour spell life…which meant he was standing here in his regular face. Before he could even make up his mind about what to do, his wand seemed to rise of its own accord, and he heard himself saying "Stupefy."

Bette collapsed to the floor like a marionette with cut strings, and Harry dragged her into the room and shut the door behind him. His heart was trying to leap out of his chest as he ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror. He fully expected to see himself, green eyed and scarred, but a stranger was staring back at him. Harry poked gently at his face, and cast a finite just to be sure it wasn't some effect of last night's spellwork. Nothing happened. The stranger's face continued to blink at him from the glass.

It was very similar to his own face in some ways. The hair was the same color and length, but it had lost all of its wildness. His cheekbones were more defined, and his jaw seemed more delicately shaped. His eyes weren't green at all, but an icy blue that was just as noticeable. His skin was a different tone, less golden and paler. His nose was longer as well. Harry lifted his bangs and gasped. There was no scar. Dumbledore had said nothing would ever remove it. How was this possible?

Harry felt like crying. There was an unconscious prostitute in his room, and he looked like a completely different person than he had when he woke up yesterday morning. What had happened? Where was his face? His mother's eyes, his father's hair, the lightning bolt scar…these had always been essential parts of Harry Potter. He wanted them back! And just as he thought it, Harry felt what could only be described as an internal snap, and suddenly he was looking at his usual face.

The heritage, he realized suddenly. He had gone to bed last night feeling comfortable as Hephaestus Peverell, so he had woken up this morning looking like him. This was so much more than he had expected from the goblins' explanations last night. It took him a full minute to calm down enough to regain the sense of comfortable anonymity and freedom he had felt last night, but when he managed it, the stranger's face was back in the mirror. Not a stranger, thought Harry. This was Hephaestus. This was the face that the Peverell heritage had given to one of its own. He smiled. It was a perfect disguise.

With the problem of being recognized solved, Harry wasn't sure what to do. Poor Bette was lying stunned in the floor, and she was surely already a little late for breakfast. Grimacing, Harry realized that he couldn't in good conscience obliviate her, because he didn't know how to do it well enough. She might end up a gibbering idiot for the rest of her life.

Realizing that he was running out of time, he acted on the first idea that popped into his head. He hated it, but Bette was stunned. It wasn't like she would feel anything, and this could be a life or death situation for him. He grabbed his History of Magic textbook out of his trunk, and closing his eyes, he smacked it rather hard against Bette's creamy forehead. Looking critically at the large pink mark this made, Harry added a very slight stinging hex for good measure. An angry red lump appeared, and Harry decided that it would have to do. He couldn't stand to hit the girl again.

After dragging her back out into the hall, Harry knelt down beside her and cast an ennervate before discretely slipping his wand back into his robes. The girl's eyes fluttered open. She looked understandably disoriented.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" said Harry in a panicky voice that wasn't entirely feigned. "I can't believe I did that! I'm such a klutz! Please say you're alright."

Bette propped herself up on her elbow, and then reached up to touch her forehead. She winced. "What happened?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," Harry moaned. "You came to invite me to breakfast, and I bashed you in the head with the door accidentally. Are you okay?"

"I remember I think…Am I bleeding?" she asked. "It really hurts."

Harry had never felt like such a jerk in his life. "No, there's no blood," he told her. "Do you think you can stand up?"

He helped her to her feet and into the bathroom so that she could look at herself in the mirror. Bette winced when she saw the large goose egg developing on her forehead. "It's going to bruise something awful, but maybe Maia can fix it. She's good with things like that."

She sounded annoyed, and Harry couldn't blame her. "Is there any way that I can make it up to you?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Bette. "Come down to breakfast with me and tell Cora why I'm late. She usually won't give latecomers so much as a cuppa, even if we work here."

"Okay," said Harry, enthusiastically. "Just let me get my shoes on, and we'll go down."

Bette laughed. "It's not exactly a formal establishment. No one's going to care if you've got shoes on."

As they started down the stairs, Bette asked, "Hey, did you ever tell me your name or did I just forget it when you conked me one?"

"I don't think I ever mentioned it," said Harry. "I'm Hephaestus. It's nice to meet you."

"Well, I can't say meeting you has been much fun so far, Hephaestus, but I'm sure you're a lovely person all the same."

"I really am sorry," said Harry.

"Just convince Cora to give us breakfast, and I'll consider forgiving you."

Cora, it transpired, was the owner of the Doxy Closet, and she was not nearly as difficult to persuade as Bette had implied. She took one look at the girl's head, which was already turning purple, and immediately ran to fetch some bruise salve. She was ready to toss Harry out on his ear for "brutalizing one of my ladies!" until Bette convinced her that it really had been an accident. Mollified, she dished them both up plates of eggs, bacon, and toast.

"Well, Hephaestus, what brings you to Knockturn Alley?" she asked as she watched them eat. She thought that Bette might have a concussion, so she wasn't going to let her out of sight until Maia had taken a look at her. "You're a little young to be traveling alone aren't you?"

Harry hesitated for a moment. He knew he could pass for younger than his true age even as Hephaestus. Apparently the Peverell heritage couldn't make up for years of malnourishment at the Dursleys'. Claiming to be a different age than Harry Potter could only help him out in the long run.

"I'm fourteen, ma'am," he said. "My parents died when I was a baby, and I had been living with relations until recently."

"Why are you on your own now, then?" she asked curiously.

"My relatives and I didn't get along," said Harry. "They decided that it was time for me to make my own way. I can't say I'm unhappy with the situation."

The madam nodded. "Sounds like you're better off on your own, lad. Besides, fourteen's not too young. Old enough to get a job and the like around here. How long will you be staying with us?"

"I was hoping to stay the rest of the summer if you don't mind," said Harry. "I've got enough pocket money saved up to pay for the room while I try to decide what to do with myself."

Cora shrugged. "You can stay as long as you want if you can pay for it. No one comes down here checking for underage wizards, so it's no trouble on my end of things."

After breakfast, Cora and Bette headed upstairs to bed, leaving the woman called Maia to watch the bar. They slept until the early afternoon, Bette had explained, then worked all night. "You might want to get the hang of doing it this way yourself," she added. "Most of the shops in the alley are only open through the night hours because the aurors know better than to bother us when the watch is out in force. There's nothing going on during the day."

Maia was a middle aged woman going gray at the temples. Harry didn't think she was much to look at, especially compared to the nymph-like Bette, but she was eager to have his company to help keep her awake. "I hate it when it's my turn to work day shift," she complained. "I'm run off my feet from all the night work. Can't seem to keep from drowsing where I stand."

Harry quickly realized that Maia was a willing source of information, so he spent the majority of the morning at the bar, drinking tea and pelting her with questions. He learned that the last time the Ministry aurors had invaded Knockturn at nighttime had been twenty years previously. "Still licking their wounds from that disaster they are…. Not smart to go up against Knockturners on our own turf. And it was a Wednesday, so the Dark wizards were all over the place," she laughed heartily. "Those aurors didn't know what hit 'em."

Harry didn't understand why it being Wednesday would make a difference, and he said as much. "Oh, Wednesday and Friday, those are their nights for visiting the alley," Maia explained patiently. "The Dark ones that is. The rest of the time it's mostly just the regulars: dark users, criminals, ordinary folk who are down on their luck, and all the other people who like to live on the edge of proper society."

His confusion must have shown on his face because Maia leaned down and spoke in a kindly voice. "Not the Knockturn sort, were they? Your relatives?"

Harry nodded in agreement. "Well," said Maia, "don't let the Dark wizards catch you glomming them together with the rest of the Knockturn crowd. They'd be dead offended about it. Just because somebody uses dark magic doesn't mean they're up to snuff on all the traditions and history of it."

"What do you mean?"

Maia seemed to find his ignorance endearing rather than annoying, so Harry got more information than he could handle all at one time. Knockturn Alley wasn't devoted primarily to the Dark side of magic, just to the illegal side of it. But the Dark tended to be a part of that, and since many of the Dark families were "well-off on the galleon end of things" the Knockturners made sure to set aside their best wares for the two nights a week that most Dark wizards chose to visit. "Not that they come here," said Maia. "Whoring goes against their beliefs, so they stay at the Magna instead."

Harry didn't see any reason to point out that prostitution wasn't something he thought very highly of either. Maia and the other ladies seemed sweet enough. "So it's their family and their history that makes them Dark?" he asked. "What about people who use dark magic but don't have anything to do with the traditions?"

"Oh, there's a lot like that. Most of us in Knockturn as a matter of fact. The Dark wizards don't have much respect for that kind, but they've got a sort of don't-ask-don't-tell policy with everyone down here. After all, there's only maybe two or three hundred true Dark wizards left in all of Britain, and the Ministry's been out for their blood for millenia. They can't be choosy when it comes to acquaintances."

At lunchtime, Harry wandered down Daemon Lane to a pub that, according to Maia, served "the best steak and stilton pie this side of the afterlife." The dingy little pub was uninspiringly named The Pub, and it looked like it hadn't seen life in about a hundred years. There were only three shady-looking customers inside apart from Harry himself. It went up a long ways in his estimation when the crusty barkeep delivered a chunk of steaming pie to him. It was the best thing Harry had ever put in his mouth.

He was just reaching for the last crumb of his crust when a small brown owl landed next to his plate and snatched it up. "Hey!" he said with a laugh. "Get your own lunch."

The owl hooted cheekily and held out its leg. A card-sized square of brown parchment was attached. Harry took the letter, wondering who in the world was writing to him, and unrolled it.

Mr. Potter,

I work for the Owl Office. We have never met before, but I have on occasion dealt with your owl, Hedwig. (Such a charming creature.) There has been a severe problem with her latest delivery. Please stop by my office posthaste, so that we can discuss the matter of illegal owlpost tampering.

Respectfully,

Ivan Eeylop

Owl Office – Department of VIO's

PS – Your lovely owls says to tell you that it's about the rude people at the peculiar house with the screaming lady stuck in the wall.

PPS – The owl that is delivering this letter is named Aphrodite. Isn't she a dear? She'll show you how to get to the office if you've never been here before. It's such a shame that Hogwarts no longer brings first years here for field trips. Remember to compliment her on her appearance.


	6. The Owl Office

Chapter 6 – The Owl Office

Harry stared at the letter. Even by wizarding standards, Ivan Eeylop must be eccentric. He didn't think he had ever received more confusing post. Harry immediately dismissed the idea that this might be a Death Eater trick or something the Order had cooked up to locate him. Both organizations took themselves far too seriously to send a letter this quirky.

He took a sip out of the dusty butterbeer bottle in front of him, noting as he did so that it tasted stronger than the kind they served in Hogsmeade. The post script (apparently from Hedwig?) indicated that his hopes about the wards at 4 Privet Drive lasting for a few days had not come to pass. The wards must have fallen, and the Order must have tampered somehow with Hedwig or the post she was carrying. Well, he had business at the Owl Office anyway, even though he had never heard of it before today. Maybe Ivan Eeylop could tell him why he had never received post from anyone except for his friends and the Order.

The little brown owl was watching him patiently. Harry folded the note up and shoved it into the pocket of his robes. He reminded himself that he would have to buy new clothes soon if he didn't want to keep wearing this same set of robes all summer. "You are a very beautiful owl," he said. What would it hurt to follow the letter's advice? "Would you please take me to the Owl Office, Aphrodite?"

The owl preened in obvious pleasure and fluttered up to Harry's shoulder. Harry had assumed that it would fly in front of him and he would follow it. This was foolish of course. Aphrodite probably didn't want to wait around for the slow human to catch up with her. But how would he communicate with the bird? If it had been Hedwig, it would have been different, but Harry had never encountered another owl as intelligent as she was. Still, he was a wizard, and stranger things happened to him on a regular basis.

Harry stepped out of the pub into the sun-warmed, cobblestoned street. He noticed with distaste that his clothes now smelled like the sour air inside the bar. He headed off down the street, again marveling at how few people prowled the alley during daylight. A couple of foreign wizards with heavy accents conversed in hushed whispers under the rusty awning of a shop called Cria's Creatures, and a caged hinkypunk had squished its face to the grimy window to watch them. But other than these, the street seemed devoid of life.

Feeling idiotic as he walked with no direction in mind, he asked "One hoot for 'yes', two for 'no'?"

Aphrodite hooted once. "Great," said Harry. "Is it in Diagon or Knockturn Alleys?"

Two hoots. "Okay, but it is in London right?"

One hoot. "Can I floo there?"

Two hoots. Of course it wouldn't be simple, thought Harry. Why hadn't the letter just given him instructions? He had a flash of inspiration. "If I get my broom, can I follow you there?"

A loud affirmative hoot. At least he wouldn't have to walk. Harry hurried back to the Doxy Closet to fetch his broom. "Maia," he asked when he came downstairs, "do you know the way to the owl office?"

The whore was in front of the heatless common room fire, playing solitaire with a singed deck of Exploding Snap cards. "No, sorry, Hephaestus. Never had a reason to go there before. I think it's somewhere around the Ministry though." She glanced at the broomstick in his hand. He was glad that his arm was covering the lettering that proclaimed it to be a Firebolt. "If you're going flying you'll have to leave the alleys to do it. There's charms up to prevent that sort of thing. Quickest way is to leave through Knockturn's back entrance. Tell 'em I sent you and they won't give you any trouble."

Knockturn Alley had a back entrance that was permanently guarded by members of the watch, who, according to Maia, were paid by the shop keepers to deter meddling Ministry officials. Judging by Maia's description, Harry suspected that it was more of an unofficial entrance than something known to the public at large. She sketched him a rough map on the corner of a copy of yesterday's Daily Prophet so that he could find his way.

He found the exit behind a garish purple shop called Morag's Mysteries. The gray stone wall behind the store was outfitted with a metal door guarded by two burly wizards in gray robes. He explained that Maia had sent him, and he was waved through the door without further questions. He wondered if they were friends of hers, or if they were patrons of the Doxy Closet. Harry was shocked that the door led, not into another street as he had expected, but into a sort of vertical concrete tube with a rusty ladder on the wall of it leading upwards. Shrugging, Harry disillusioned himself in case he came out into a crowd of muggles and began to climb. After about a minute, he found himself emerging from an incongruous iron manhole cover at the end of a deserted back alley.

Harry could have sworn that Knockturn Alley was at the same level as Diagon Alley, which was on a level with Charring Cross Road. Why did he have to climb to get here? One of the quirks of the wizarding world, he decided as he brushed dust and dirt from his robes. The back alley, which smelled strongly of motor oil and cannabis, must have been invisible to muggles, because many of them were passing by on the sidewalk just a few yards away without ever looking in his direction. Harry looked to the brown owl on his shoulder. "Well?" he asked her. "Lead the way."

Aphrodite took off at once, and Harry followed. It was blissful to soar through the air again. The air was clear and clean-smelling, and the wind made his hair whip around his face. He would have been happy to fly all afternoon, but after only fifteen minutes, Aphrodite began to descend. At first, Harry couldn't see anything but office buildings, but just as he was approaching the helipad on top of the nearest one he seemed to pass through some sort of invisible barrier. Before his startled eyes, a large, domed building shaped like a giant silo with numerous glassless windows bloomed into view between the two buildings on either side of it. Owls were approaching the building from all sides, and Harry wondered what kind of spell kept the muggles from noticing so many of them in one area. Aphrodite swooped through one of the upper level windows, and he followed her.

It was like flying into a storm of feathers. Owls of every shape and color were zooming in and out of rooms and corridors in such numbers that Harry couldn't even pick out individual birds. The noise was awful, and it smelled strongly of musty feathers and dead rat. Where was Aphrodite?

The small bird was nowhere to be seen. Just as he was about to give up on finding her, he saw a human shape making its way through the flock. "Good gracious, Mr. Potter!" shouted a voice. "I didn't expect you to come in through one of our owl entrances."

The man stopped in front of Harry. Aphrodite was sitting on his shoulder puffing up with pride at having accomplished her mission. Harry's first thought was that Ivan Eeylop looked very much like an owl himself. He had wispy gray hair that stuck up in two little tufts just behind his small ears, and his round brown eyes were magnified behind thick spectacles that perched precariously on the end of his beaky nose.

"Goodness me, Mr. Potter," he said as he leaned forward to peer at Harry. "You don't look much like yourself if you'll pardon my saying so. But, of course, you are yourself or Aphrodite wouldn't have fetched you for me."

"I'm in disguise," said Harry, mentally berating himself for forgetting that he looked like Hephaestus.

"Don't be stupid," cried Mr. Eeylop, waving his arms about. "Of course you're not in disguise. Do you think I would have bothered to mention it if you were in disguise? Really, Mr. Potter, that wouldn't make any sense at all."

Harry opened his mouth to protest that he had no clue what Mr. Eeylop was talking about, but the man held up a hand. "No, don't worry about it, kind sir. It's obvious that you're just pretending to be disguised so that I won't know you're really you. Very clever, Mr. Potter! But what else should I expect from the owner of the lovely Hedwig? Follow me! She's right this way."

Harry wondered if the Lovegoods and the Eeylops might be related. They seemed to enjoy a similar kind of insanity. The man led him down a floor and to a corridor that was mostly free of owls. At the end of the corridor, stood a wooden door with the letters "V.I.O." emblazoned on it in gold lettering. "The office of Very Important Owls," Mr. Eeylop intoned grandly as he swept open the door.

Harry gaped. It looked like a cross between a forest and a gift packaging center. The room was impossibly large. A walkway lead from the door to a circle of tile flooring filled with long wooden tables. Different postal implements were placed on each of these tables, everything from boxes and twine to ink and parchment. There were also a variety of things that Harry had no name for. The remarkable part of the room, however, was the trees. About twenty medium-sized trees of different varieties grew from a ring of loam that made up the room's perimeter. Mice seemed to be scurrying around in the grass at the foot of each tree. Only four of the trees had owls in them, and Harry could see Hedwig sleeping, with her head tucked under a wing, on the lower limb of a poplar across the room.

"I haven't had a V.I.R. here in ages, Mr. Potter," said Ivan Eeylop happily. "It's nice of you to come and visit."

"Well, I came because of your letter," Harry reminded him. "And what's a V.I.R.?"

"You are, Mr. Potter! A Very Important Recipient, of course. Not that all V.I.R's have V.I.O.'s or vice versa. You and Ms. Hedwig are quite the pair!"

"Okay," said Harry, hoping the dotty fellow would get to the point. Unfortunately, Mr. Eeylop seemed to take this as an invitation to tell him more about the acronyms. Following the man's rambling chatter was hideously frustrating, but after a while Harry found himself getting interested. Ivan Eeylop knew everything about owls and, as he put it, "their wizards".

The intelligence of an owl depended on the depth and quality of the bond they shared with a wizard. The most intelligent and talented owls inevitably came from an environment where they were treated with the utmost respect and care. These owls, explained Mr. Eeylop, were truly invaluable to their owners because they were able to make deliveries that most other owls couldn't manage. V.I.O.'s could deliver heavy packages over long distances, and they could find almost any recipient even without proper addresses. The Owl Office served as a rest stop and information center for all owls if they should need it, but only V.I.O.'s came to Mr. Eeylop. "Barring disaster," said the owl keeper after he explained that most V.I.O.'s lived longer than other owls, "your children might one day send Hedwig off with messages."

Harry was skeptical. "How is that possible?" he asked, thinking of Errol. "I mean, I've got friends with an older owl, and it's decrepit."

"They must not treat the owl very well then, Mr. Potter. Owls respond to wizards' expectations. Wizards used to understand that, but it's been forgotten like a lot of the Old Ways. If you don't believe me, just take a look at Taranis over there," he said pointing to a huge Eagle Owl in a nearby pine. "He'll be seventy-two years old this year. That makes him the oldest V.I.O. in Britain, and he's as healthy as any owl I've ever met."

The magnificent owl was staring at Harry and clacking his beak, clearly agitated by something. "He's been trying to deliver a letter to you for the past week and a half," Mr. Eeylop whispered to Harry. "Poor chap is very sensitive about it. He can't deliver it to you, you see, because his master isn't on your safe-sender list. When I told him you were coming here he decided to wait for you."

"What?" said Harry, not taking his eyes off of the owl. Where had he seen it before? "I've been meaning to ask about that. Why don't I ever receive any fan mail or hate mail or even junk post?"

"That's because you've got a very small safe-sender list, Mr. Potter. The shortest of any of our V.I.R.'s in fact. Only people on the list are allowed to send you mail unless you invite the response of the general public by being quoted or featured in the newspaper or on the WWN. Everyone else's letters are either rerouted or destroyed at the main office."

"Who decided on that?" demanded Harry. "I certainly didn't. I would like to get all of my mail as long as it's not hexed or something."

"Well you can change the sender list anytime you want to of course, but I believe Albus Dumbledore saw to its creation when you were an infant. He updates it from time to time, but once you pass the age of thirteen you're allowed to control your own mail if you request it."

"I do want to do that." Harry's voice was firm. What gave Dumbledore the right to keep practically everyone in the world from posting him? Sure, it was probably a good idea for a lot of reasons, but it should have been Harry's decision.

"Of course you do," said Mr. Eeylop. "But first, let's get down to business. I called you here to let you know that someone placed a tracking charm on Ms. Hedwig. She knew to come here to me rather than leading the caster to you."

"Right," Harry sighed. Obviously the Order was aware that he had escaped. "Can you take the tracking charm off?"

"I already did, Mr. Potter, but I wanted you to be aware of it. We at the Owl Office take post tampering very seriously." He looked fierce and a little mad as he said this, and Harry had the feeling that the idea of wizards messing with one of his V.I.O.'s deeply offended him. "You won't be sending her back to the perpetrators will you?" he asked.

"Oh, no. Of course not."

"Well, then," said Eeylop, clapping his hands together. "Let's take care of your sender list."

Harry had never imagined that there would be so much paperwork associated with his safe-sender list, but when it was all said and done, he couldn't have been more pleased. He would receive mail from everyone now, but mail that wasn't from someone he knew personally would be held until the end of the week. This mail would be packaged up, shrunken if necessary, and shipped to him once a week. All of his mail would have to come through the owl office now and be screened for curses. Howlers would automatically be binned. It was all quite routine for someone of his status according to Mr. Eeylop.

As soon as Harry signed his name for the final time, the Eagle Owl let out a triumphant screech and soared over onto the table in front of him. "Goodness, Taranis. You are eager aren't you?" Mr. Eeylop chortled.

From its place on the table, the bird regarded Harry almost eye to eye, and it held out its left leg with a great air of formality. Somewhat intimidated, Harry untied the scroll it was carrying. The parchment was heavy but fine-weaved, cream colored, and it smelled very faintly of sage. Looking down at it, he noted that the silver wax seal was embossed with a fancy letter M.

Realization struck him. "You're Malfoy's owl!"


	7. A Bit of Advice

Chapter 7 – A Bit of Advice

Last Chapter: Realization struck him. "You're Malfoy's owl!"

Harry was stunned. Why was Draco Malfoy sending him mail? Mr. Eeylop smiled at the surprised exclamation. "Oh, do you know young Master Malfoy?" he asked. "His family has three V.I.O's…most impressive, but then, they've always appreciated the value of a good bird."

"I know Malfoy from school," said Harry. "But we're not exactly friends, so I can't imagine why he would send me a letter."

"It's not a letter, Mr. Potter," said Mr. Eeylop.

"What? Of course it's a letter! What else would it be?" Really, the man was completely batty.

"It's an invitation," said the owlmaster. "They've sent one to you every year for the past few summers at just around this time, but they never got through of course."

Taranis screeched furiously, feathers standing on end, and Harry took an involuntary step backwards. "Now, Taranis, it's hardly Mr. Potter's fault," the old man soothed. "It's quite an insult for an owl like him to be unable to deliver a letter he's been entrusted with," Mr. Eeylop explained. "He comes here in an ill mood each year in hopes that he will encounter your Hedwig so that he can pass the post off to her, but she so rarely stops by that he's never managed it."

"How do you know that it's an invitation?" asked Harry. "Did you read it in the past or something?"

Mr. Eeylop looked horrified at the thought. "Great Scott, lad! I wouldn't read mail not addressed to me! It would be completely unprofessional…horrible thought, horrible thought."

"Sorry, I assumed…"

"No, no, no," said Mr. Eeylop flapping his hands at Harry. "I know because they send out nearly two hundred each year to various wizards and witches throughout Britain. They are invitations to an annual birthday party for young master Malfoy."

"They send out two hundred invitations to a birthday party?" Harry felt his eyebrows lift. That seemed just like the sort of thing the Malfoy family would do. "But why would they invite me to it? I mean, Lucius Malfoy is a Death Eater, and Draco and I aren't exactly chums."

"What does that matter?" asked Eeylop in genuine confusion. "You're families aren't bloodfeuding are they?"

Harry stared at the man. "I don't know what that means, but I don't think so. Still, I don't think it's a good idea to invite someone to your home if you've tried to off them before."

"That's just politics, Mr. Potter," he said airily. "It would be improper for them not to invite you because of that. You're the heir of a fairly old family, and you are their son's age. To not invite you would show a lack of manners on their part. If you really don't get along, then they probably don't expect you to come anyway."

Unconvinced, Harry unrolled the scroll and began to read the elegant dark green script:

_To: The Esteemed Heir of the Potter House_

_From: Lady Carina Narcissa Malfoy nee Black_

_I write on behalf of my husband to invite you to a formal ball in honor of the 16th year of our son and heir, Draconis Lucian Malfoy. The celebration will be held at our home in Wiltshire on June the 30th at 7:00 in the evening. You are welcome to bring a guest if you desire. We await your response._

The letter ended with a delicate copy of the Malfoy family crest inked in gold onto the parchment. Harry stared at it in bemusement. He really had been invited to Draco Malfoy's birthday party. How…weird. Ron would die of shock if he told him.

Mr. Eeylop cleared his throat. "Was I right, Mr. Potter? Is it an invitation?"

"It is," said Harry. He still couldn't quite believe it. "I guess I should send them a note back saying I'm not going." He looked at the variety of mail supplies littering the tables around them, noting as he did so that there was a cage of live gerbils labeled "Snacks" to his left. "Do you mind if I borrow some parchment and a quill?"

Mr. Eeylop blinked rapidly several times, then tilted his head to one side. "Mr. Potter," he said in a tentative voice, "do you know how to send a proper refusal?"

"Err…Is there some sort of special way to do it? I thought I would just, you know, say I wasn't coming."

"Oh," said Mr. Eeylop worriedly. "I don't think you should do that. There are ways to do these things. Rules of etiquette to be followed. If you don't send the right sort of response you'll insult them."

Harry was about to open his mouth to tell the old wizard that he didn't care much if Malfoy was insulted, when he realized that it wasn't entirely true. He didn't want to be deliberately rude to Malfoy's mother even though her son was a prat. He pondered this for a moment, idly tapping the parchment in his hand, before he realized why the idea bothered him. No one else had ever invited Harry to a birthday party before, and he was, he realized with embarrasment, flattered that Narcissa Malfoy had sent him such a nice invitation. He didn't want to offend the family when, for once, they actually hadn't done anything wrong. Besides, Lucius Malfoy was currently in prison because of Harry, and even though the latest Daily Prophet had said the Ministry was considering releasing him because of "lack of sufficient evidence," it just seemed too mean to be impolite to Lady Malfoy, who he didn't really know at all.

"Well, how do I do it right, then?" he asked Mr. Eeylop. "I don't want to upset them or anything."

"When is the party?"

"June 30th."

"That gives you ten days," said the old man. "So you'll need to reply within five. That's plenty of time for you to get some books on proper wizarding etiquette."

"Err…alright," said Harry. "But couldn't you just tell me?"

"No, no, Mr. Potter," he shook his head. "I'm afraid that the Eeylop's, though a pureblood family, are not members of the upper social echelons. I only know that there is a proper way to do these things. I don't actually know what that way is."

"Alright." Harry thought that he probably needed to brush up on wizarding etiquette anyway. If it was very different than Muggle manners, then the chances were good that he would make a fool of himself before too long.

"Make sure you get a book that teaches you in terms of the old ways," Mr. Eeylop advised Harry shrewdly. "These days I imagine the bookstores are full of nothing but Ministry-sanctioned self-help swill. That won't cut it with the really old families."

Promising to get a good book as soon as possible, Harry bade Mr. Eeylop and the owl office goodbye. He told Hedwig to meet him back at the Doxy Closet, and after disillusioning himself, he mounted his broom and took off down the corridors. This time he enjoyed the challenge of flying through all of the owls. Behind him he heard Mr. Eeylop shout, "Don't think you can escape, Mr. Potter! My Aphrodite will know where to find you. Take care of lovely Ms. Hedwig!"

[][][][][][]

It was mid-afternoon when Harry made it back to Knockturn Alley. The sun shone brightly down onto the shopkeepers and vendors who were now bustling about the street with a sort of quiet industry that was very different from what he had seen before in Diagon Alley. Old crones were charming brooms to sweep off their stoops, shop keepers were rolling back curtains on window displays and putting out signs, and the temporary vendors were setting up rickety wooden stalls all along the street. Several of the stores' signs, which had obviously been charmed in the past couple of hours, now glowed faintly in the bright daylight.

Harry entered the Doxy Closet to find, not only Maia but also all the other prostitutes dashing around the common area with cloths and buckets of water in a frenzy of cleaning. A couple of very old wizards with strong Russian accents, who he assumed must be staying as tenants of the inn as well, were sitting at the bar drinking large mugs of coffee. "Hi, Hephaestus!" trilled Bette as she swept past him holding a mop. "Customers will be arriving soon, so if you want anything from the bar before it gets too crazy you'd better go ahead and get it."

The lemony smell of Mrs. Scour's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover was starting to burn Harry's nose, so he made his way upstairs. The small bed looked divine, and though Harry had only meant to lie down for a moment in order to collect his thoughts, he woke up several hours later to the sound of music and raucous laughter from downstairs. He went over to the window, careful not to trip over anything in the dark room, to peer down at the street. Knockturn alley had come alive with the setting of the sun, and the street was once again filled with people. He opened the window to the cool night breeze and was greeted with a host of strange noises and smells. He definitely smelled some kind of meat cooking, and his stomach made its presence known with a low growl.

Harry checked his face in the mirror. His features had reverted back to those of Harry Potter. Closing his eyes, he thought of Hephaestus's face. Hephaestus Peverell would feel excited, enlivened by the Knockturn Alley nightlife. He wouldn't think it uncomfortable or strange. He was the sort of person who would fit right in here without anyone giving him a moment's glance. Harry felt the shift before he opened his eyes. He was suddenly just a little more eager to join the mass of the wizarding world's least savory denizens below him. Opening his eyes, he saw tame hair and icy blue eyes in the mirror. Harry frowned. Why was he all blurry?

Harry removed his glasses, and began to polish them on his robes. He looked back at the mirror before putting the lenses back on, then gasped. He could see! He waved a hand in front of his face. Everything had suddenly jumped into a clarity he had never even experienced with his glasses. He could see into all the darkened corners of the room. But…he peered around…everything looked different. The colors were a little bit off, all muted and grayer than he was used to them being, as though they were being seen through a pair of badly tinted sunglasses.

Harry turned on the lamp, and the room was flooded with light. He felt a sharp stabbing pain in his eyes, and suddenly everything was blurry again. His glasses brought it all back into focus. After that, it took him only a moment to realize what was going on. The goblins had said that the Peverell family was purported to have great night vision. Clearly, he had inherited that gift as Hephaestus, but the enhanced vision apparently only worked at night. He wondered if his Peverell ancestors had cast some sort of spell on themselves to make it work…or maybe they weren't entirely human? In any case, the ability to see in the dark would likely come in handy, and it would definitely be beneficial in a fight. He could learn to cast that TrueNight spell that Hermione had been researching for charms last year, and his opponents would be blind! Humming cheerfully at the thought, Harry threw on his hooded cloaked, slipped on the Peverell family ring (a heavy silver band with a rune engraved into the top) for the first time, and headed down the stairs.

[][][][][][]

Two hours, four bookstores, and two second-hand shops later, Harry was extremely frustrated. He had found books that would teach him how to boil a person's eyes out, brew the ninety-seven poisons of Ptolemy, and summon demons; but he hadn't found a single text in any of the stores that would tell him how to go about refusing the Malfoys' invitation without seeming like a complete social ignoramus. He had actually purchased one book from the last store he had visited just so the night wouldn't be completely unsuccessful. It was a heavy leather-bound text entitled Basic Rituals: Practical Ceremonies for the Talented Wizard. After flipping through it, Harry decided that he had to have it because in spite of this type of magic being wildly different than that taught at Hogwarts, it was also supposed to be used for much grander and more permanent spellwork.

Disgruntled, he headed toward Renata's Robes. The small shop was crammed between a large store called Zate's Apothecary, where the human hair Harry had noticed last night still hung in the window, and a leatherworking shop that advertised custom bags made of everything from mokeskin to thestral hide. The robe store didn't seem to be doing much business. Harry tried to ignore the smell of mothballs as he looked between the racks for a salesperson. He jumped when he felt someone tap him on the back.

Spinning around he found himself face to face with a woman so draped in robes of different sizes and colors that she seemed to blend in with the rack behind her. "Are you looking for a set of robes?" she asked from behind the pile of gray robes she was holding.

"Yes," said Harry. "I need a new wardrobe actually. I've outgrown everything I have I'm afraid."

"Really?" the voice behind the robes asked in shock. "A whole wardrobe? That's wonderful!" And she dropped the stack of robes in her arms onto the floor and grabbed his hand enthusiastically. Harry decided that she must not be much older than he was. She wore a set of short robes in a modern cut that showed off the tight jeans underneath, and a tiny nose ring glittered against her dark brown skin.

"I'm Robin," she said as she shook his hand. "This is my store. What kind of robes are you looking for?"

"Well," he said as he looked around at the racks of robes. "I was hoping to get tailored robes. Nothing extravagant but…"

"Of course!" Robin squealed. She dropped his hand and pointed to the back wall of the shop. "Go get behind that curtain, and I'll get my supplies."

Less than five minutes later, Harry found himself standing awkwardly on a stool in nothing but his underthings being measured by Robin. The woman seemed so excited to have a customer that she kept getting impatient with the magical measuring tape, so she had grabbed it and was now doing all the measuring herself.

"You know," said Harry as Robin measured his left bicep. "I would have thought your name would be Renata since that's the name of the store."

"She was my mother," said Robin as she used a little black pencil to mark the measurement on a piece of paper. "She died at Christmas, and even though everyone around here used to buy from her they're all hesitant to come to me. I'm only nineteen and Malkin has more experience of course. I'm still loads better than that old biddy though," she said fiercely, glaring at Harry in the mirror as though daring him to disagree.

Harry just nodded his head, wishing she would get on with the measuring so he could put his clothes back on. "Mum taught me everything, and she was the best there ever was. Everyone said so," Robin continued. "You're going to look fantastic,…Hey! What's your name anyway? "

"Hephaestus Peverell."

"Good to meet you, Hephaestus. Like I was saying, you're going to love these robes. You'll want three everyday, one work, one formal, and all the accessories right? That's your basic wardrobe."

"That sounds good," Harry agreed, "but I'll need some shirts and pants and stuff too. I want to be able to blend in with the Muggle world as well."

"Oh my Merlin!" she shrieked so loudly that Harry would have toppled off the stool if she hadn't grabbed him around the waist in a tight hug. "I can do the coolest things ever with Muggle clothes! You've come to the right place H.P."

"I bet," said Harry as he gasped for air. He didn't mind the shortening of his name. Robin was beginning to remind him a little of Tonks without the klutziness. "How much is this going to cost?" he asked as she finally let him go.

"Hmmm…" Robin chewed on her lower lip as she thought about it. "It all depends on the types of materials, the time it takes to do the stitching, if you want any alteration charms done, what kind of accessories you'll need…Do you want me to bring in the catalog so we can go through it all?"

Harry winced. The last thing he wanted to do was spend all night pouring over fabric samples. Robin laughed. "I almost forgot that you're a teenage guy. I bet it sounds like your idea of Chinese water torture. You want to just pay in advance and let me figure it all out for you based on that? I promise you won't look stupid in anything I pick."

Harry eyed the witch's clothes again. It was trendier than something he would have chosen for himself, but then again, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. He didn't have much in the way of fashion sense. "Okay," he agreed, "But for the wizarding clothes lean towards the more classical styles if you don't mind. Will three hundred galleons be enough to cover it all?"

Her eyes widened a bit. "Oh, yeah, I can do loads with that much. It'll all be really nice stuff but not super fancy, if you know what I mean."

At last, Harry put his clothes back on, and Robin took him up to the cash register so that he could pay. She handed him a small blank card, and following her instructions, he wrote the amount on it then spat on it and handed it back to her. Seeing his disgusted expression, she laughed. "For anything more than five hundred galleons you have to put a drop of blood on the card. At least it's better than hauling around heavy bags full of gold."

She held the card over an apparatus next to the cash register that reminded Harry of a Bunsen burner. A little tongue of flame shot out and consumed the card, and a moment later, a receipt appeared in another flash of fire. "Here you go," she said as she handed it to him. "The money's been transferred from your Gringotts account to mine. I'll have the clothes ready in three days. Can I do anything else for you tonight?"

Harry snorted. "Only if you know where to find a book that would teach me traditional pureblood etiquette."

Robin frowned. "I'm afraid not. I'm only a half blood myself. Do you mean like the really old traditions that only the Great Families and the Dark wizards still follow?"

"I think so," said Harry. If there were Great Families in the wizarding world, then the Malfoys were surely one of them, and he wouldn't be at all surprised if they were true Dark wizards as well. "I'm pretty sure that that's what I need to know."

Robin shook her head. "You're not going to find a book like that without a ton of luck," she said certainly. "I've heard that the old ways are usually passed down orally through family lines these days. I bet they haven't been written down in books for at least a hundred years or more."

"Great," Harry groaned. "Now someone tells me. I've been looking for a book all night."

The witch peered closely at him. "I might know someone who could tell you all about that kind of thing though," she said. "But, you'd have to be a saint to put up with him for long. He's a real sourpuss."

"Who?" asked Harry curiously.

"The apothecary next door. Zate's a very smart, very ill-tempered pureblood. If you could get him to talk to you, I'll bet he could tell you anything you needed to know."


	8. The Apothecary

Chapter 8 – The Apothecary

Zakarias Zate loathed idiots, drug-addicts, and witches in search of illegal love potions. Unfortunately, his shop saw a steady stream of these types every night. It was all he could do some days not to chuck his customers out into the street or spray them with undiluted Derbinfug venom. The needy morons certainly deserved it.

Even worse than the stupid customers, however, were the imbecilic job applicants who had plagued him ever since he posted the "Help Wanted" sign out front. After two weeks of interviewing the dregs of Knockturn Alley, the sign now read: Help Wanted: But Only if You Are Over Ten, Under Seventy, Completely Human, Literate, An English Speaker, Not Arachnophobic, Undiseased, and More or Less Capable of Basic Motor Function. Originally, Zate had been hoping for someone who had at least a basic knowledge of the ingredients and potions he sold, but at this point he would settle for anyone with a strong back and a grammar-school education.

At ninety-five, Zate was well into old age even by wizarding standards, and though he likely had at least a couple of decades of good health left, he was getting very tired of stacking heavy boxes of volatile potions ingredients. He wiped the sweat off of his brow with his uncrippled hand and limped to the back of his shop to fetch another jar of lacewing flies for the ridiculous little woman at the counter who swore that the last jar she had bought hadn't been properly sealed. An assistant would be wonderful, he mused as he rummaged around through the bottles of flies in search of the lacewings. Even an unknowledgeable one could be trained if they had a modicum of intelligence.

Stumping back up to the counter, Zate noticed that another customer had entered. It was a teenage boy, dressed a little shabbily but not at all reminiscent of the hoodlums that tried to steal from him every so often. Zate wondered how many of the little twerps he would have to scar for life before they stopped trying to thieve from a Dark wizard. He was about to ignore the boy in favor of getting the lacewings to the witch, but then he noticed his eyes.

Behind the ugly round glasses, the boy's eyes were the clearest, iciest blue that Zate had ever seen in real life. He had seen those eyes before. A family, long-dead like far too many of the best of them, whose portraits were contained in the Book of Souls had had those very same eyes. The apothecary allowed his memory to coast back to his days as a student of the old ways. His grandmother had been stricter than most, and memorizing the Book of Souls had been her method of punishment for him once when he became too careless about keeping his nature hidden from the Light wizards who lived next door. The name drifted into his mind, accompanied by pictures of witches and wizards with eyes like ice. Peverell. He remembered. The last of the Peverells had been killed in the Ministry darkhunts of the 1700's. Nothing too special about them. They were a powerful family, an old family, but they didn't have the prestige of families like the Malfoys and Lestranges.

The obnoxious little woman cleared her throat to gain his attention, and Zate went to the cash register to ring up the flies. He watched the stranger as he did so. The boy seemed curious about his surroundings. He was walking around the shop now, looking into barrels and bottles with the air of someone who was inexperienced but interested. Zate noted that he kept his hands firmly behind his back. At least the teen had the good sense to realize that most of the ingredients shouldn't be touched with his bare hands.

The fly woman hurried away, clutching her jar, and Zate surreptitiously pulled his wand from his pocket. In a practiced move, he flicked it twice. The sign on the window flipped over to "Closed" and the door locked with a quiet schnict. Zate stalked over to the boy, who was now examining the Gulping Plimpie aquarium with a look of great fascination on his face.

"Good as a replacement aquatic element in some potions for people who are allergic to Gilly Weed," Zate said gruffly.

The boy startled a little and turned. Zate noticed with approval that his hand was discretely placed on his wand in his robe pocket. Clever kid. The apothecary checked the boy's face carefully and was disappointed to find the skin around his cheeks and brow bones completely devoid of any markings. Still, there was a chance…

"I didn't know that," said the boy who looked like a Peverell. Ah, well, it would have been too perfect if the teen had been a potions genius. "Are you, Mr. Zate?" the boy asked.

"Indeed," said Zate sticking out his hand. "And who might you be?"

The kid smiled as he took Zate's hand. "I'm Hephaestus," he replied easily. "Hephaestus Peverell."

[][][][][][]

Zate's mind was working furiously as he considered the possibilities. The boy was nattering on about why he had come. Apparently, he needed to know how to send a formal letter of refusal without offending the recipient, and that crazy girlchild seamstress next door had sent him to Zate. How could the boy be a Peverell? The death of that family was well-documented, and no one had heard anything about a missing descendant for centuries.

Zate struggled with it for a while, making encouraging sounds and asking vague questions every time the boy paused for breath. The goblins, he decided finally. It had to be. This boy must have come forward for inheritance testing and been found as the Peverell heir. Highly unexpected. Usually, only the purebloods bothered to have a heritage test performed, and they would never choose the heritage that manifested over their own like this lad had apparently done. And why did he look so much like a Peverell? If anything, his old features should have blended with his new ones, not taken them over entirely. Zate needed to examine this theory farther. If there was even a chance that the boy might turn out Dark (and with Peverell blood flowing in his veins Zate bet it was even odds) then he was obligated to inform the rest of the community. There were too few of them left to pass up the opportunity to teach someone who showed promise.

"Just a moment," Zate interrupted Hephaestus as he was explaining something about how he would like to learn more than just proper letter etiquette if Zate could possibly direct him towards texts. "I'm sure I can help you, but I must go check on something right away. I've got a potion going in the back. Stay here."

The apothecary hobbled away as quickly as his gimpy leg would allow.

[][][][][][]

Harry frowned at the retreating figure. Robin had said that the apothecary was a grumpy old fellow, but so far he just seemed to be extremely preoccupied. He stared at Harry's face as though it held the entirety of his attention, but he had asked Harry several times to repeat himself. Maybe he was hard of hearing?

The old man returned less than a minute later, took one look at Harry's face then bent double in a kind of strangled coughing fit. "Are you alright, Mr. Zate?" he asked in concern. He reached out to touch the choking wizard, but Zate waved him away frantically.

A moment passed while the apothecary straightened out his robes and stared at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him before, then he said "Quite alright, young Peverell. I'm more afflicted with old age sometimes than others. You want me to teach you how to write a letter of refusal you say? And possibly more of the…I take it that by saying etiquette you mean the traditions? The cornerstones of…old wizarding… society?"

Harry nodded. "If you can, sir."

Zate smirked. "I certainly can teach you that, boy. I can teach you that and a lot more."

Harry opened his mouth to thank the elderly wizard, but he was interrupted.

"But I won't do it."

"What? Why not?"

"I just haven't the time, lad. I'm running this shop from sunset to sunup all on my own. Whenever would I teach you?"

"But, Mr. Zate I really…"

"No, no. I'm afraid it can't be done. I'm sure you've seen the sign out front? I'm in desperate need of help, boy. I can't devote myself to teaching you with the way things are going unless…"

Harry noticed the glint in the apothecary's eyes, and he had a premonition of what was to come. "Oh no, Mr. Zate, I couldn't possibly…" he began.

"…you could come and work for me. A lovely idea I think. I could teach you in between customers or after hours. If you do well I might even…"

"I'm a horror at potions. Really, I am. I don't know what half the things in here are and I would probably blow up…"

"…make a decent assistant out of you. Yes, that's the only way that I would be able…"

"…your shop. Isn't there some other way you could?..."

"…to do it," said the apothecary. "Really, lad. That's my only offer."

Harry sighed. Was it really worth it? The letter, in itself, wasn't that important, but he had gotten it into his head that he really wanted to learn this sort of thing. It would likely determine his success or failure in certain circles later in life. But working for the apothecary? Snape would have an apoplectic fit at the thought. Harry might not be naturally terrible at potions like his professor believed, but he hadn't put any effort into it since that disastrous first lesson. How would he keep up as an apothecary's assistant? If it didn't work out he could always quit.

"Are you sure you want me to work for you, Mr. Zate?" he asked at last. "I'm really not the best with potions ingredients, and I would need at least three days a week off. I have other things to do this summer." This last wasn't strictly true, but Harry didn't want to spend his entire summer working.

Zate flapped his hands irritably. "Tuesday through Friday you're mine from an hour before until an hour after dark," he said, "but I can handle it the rest of the week. I'll pay you fair wages, minus the time I spend teaching you."

"Alright," said Harry, arriving at his decision. "I'll see you tomorrow night I guess."

The apothecary nodded, shook Harry's hand, and pointed him toward the door. "Mind you're not late, boy," he said. "I don't suffer the idle."

Harry nodded, wondering what he had gotten himself into. As he reached for the door, he thought he heard the sound of the lock shifting, but he didn't think anything of it. As the light from Zate's windows faded into the night behind him, the sign on the door swung back to "Open."

[][][][][][]

Zakarias Zate loathed idiots, and he was very much afraid that he was becoming one with old age. He blinked his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to get rid of the gluey feeling that accompanied the Sight-Unseen potion he had taken. It was a clever potion, the kind that any Dark wizard appreciated in these troubled times, but it was devilishly hard to make. Zate himself couldn't do it because he only had one fully-functioning arm. It had peculiar results if the potioneer made the slightest error.

Severus Snape had made this particular potion and given it to the apothecary last month in exchange for his usual hideously expensive supplies. If it had been any other potions master, Zate would have thought it was malfunctioning. The Sight-Unseen potion was useful because it allowed the drinker to see the true nature of the things and people around him. It came in handy when he suspected that one of his "customers" was actually a Ministry lackey checking for illegal ingredients, which the shop was full of. He had taken the single dose of the rare potion, which was worth more than an entire week's earnings, to determine whether his theory about the young Peverell boy was right.

The boy was a Peverell, sure enough, and he had the potential, plainly visible with the potion, to turn away from the lies that the self-proclaimed Light wizards fed the masses. He really ought to get word out to the community about the boy. Normally, when a new wizard turned to the Dark or when one who seemed likely was found, there was a celebratory atmosphere throughout the entire group. Even the most uppity of the purebloods became giddy at the thought of welcoming a new member into the dwindling brotherhood. He remembered how excited everyone had been when a much younger Severus Snape, half-blooded but very powerful, had informed his friend Lucius Malfoy that he had decided to practice the traditions. So many of the Dark ones had congratulated him or sent him gifts of welcome, that they almost frightened the taciturn teenager out of the idea.

Yes, thought Zate as he rubbed at his temples, he really ought to tell the others that he had found the Peverell heir. But Mighty Morgaine! He couldn't possibly tell them that Hephaestus Peverell was also Harry Potter!


	9. The Letters

Chapter 9 - Letters

Harry woke just after midday to the sound of tapping on his window. He felt a little groggy and out-of-sorts. Adjusting to the nocturnal lifestyle of Knockturn Alley was playing havoc with his internal clock. He had deliberately stayed up until 6AM reading Basic Rituals and skimming over old potions texts so that he could enjoy breakfast (Or was it supper?) with the ladies of the Doxy Closet before heading to bed.

Apparently it had taken him a while to hear the tapping, because when he finally let the owl in it nipped him on the finger and flew off without waiting to see if he would reply to whatever mail it had brought. Harry had mixed feelings when he saw who the two letters were from. He was eager to hear from his best friends, but he wasn't at all in the mood to be lectured or urged to return to Dumbledore. He decided to open Ron's first. No matter what, it would certainly be simpler to deal with than Hermione's. He noted that the front of the letter had been stamped by the owl office as Clean. He supposed that meant it had been checked for tracking spells.

_Harry, mate, you know you're nuts, right? Dumbledore came here yesterday and nearly stripped the house searching for you even after Mum told him you weren't here. I think he was about to start looking under the mattresses the way he was carrying on. You're going to be in boatloads of trouble if they catch you, so don't let them! I called Mio on the fellytone to tell her you'd escaped (only took me three tries this go!), so I bet she sends you a letter too._

_Ginny, Fred, and George say to tell you that you're a genius. Mum's going spare though. She says to tell you that you oughtn't to have done it, but that since you have you should come and stay here immediately. (Apparently you blew the wards around your relatives' place all to smash when you left, so no more summers with fat muggles!) Well, that's all mate. Send me a reply won't you? That way I can prove to Mum that the Death Eater's haven't gotten you._

_Ron_

_PS – Did you see? The Canons are top five in the league this year. They've only played one game but it could happen, right?_

Harry smiled. Ron was fine with him leaving (which he expected), and Mrs. Weasley didn't seem too upset, just a little worried (which he hadn't expected). Ron was difficult when his ridiculous jealousy and inadequacy struck him, but overall, being Ron Weasley's friend was fairly easy. No questions or manipulations from Ron, just a happy-go-lucky attitude that was sometimes marred by fits of temper. It was, Harry thought a bit guiltily, because Ron wasn't that clever. This was not at all the case with his other best friend, and he unfolded Hermione's letter a little more cautiously. Ever since the Marietta Edgcombe incident, he had a whole new respect for what the witch could do with nothing more than ink and paper.

_Harry,_

_Ron told me. I would go off on a rant about your irresponsibility and the dangers of leaving your Aunt's house, but I suppose you already know all that, so I'll save it for later. I know you wouldn't listen to me anyway, and it sounds like there's nothing to be done for it at this point. I will say that I think you should go to Dumbledore. You would probably be allowed to stay at Headquarters or Hogwarts for the summer, both of which would be much safer than your other options…not to mention the fact that you could practice magic there. However, I don't think you're going to do that. From what Ron says you've hidden yourself fairly well. You're going to be in so much trouble when we get back to school!_

_I'm terribly worried, Harry! Ron thinks it's all a good laugh of course, but you and I both know that things are getting serious. Wherever you are, I hope you've thought it out well and that you're safe._

_I've been thinking a lot about what happened in the Department of Mysteries. Without the DA training, we probably wouldn't have made it out alive. And since I'm refraining from browbeating you, I expect you to come to school next term with loads of new spells to teach us. Don't you DARE think that you're getting out of it! I don't know if you might be hiding out in the muggle world or not, so if you need me to send you spellbooks or anything of that nature, just let me know. I'll get them for you._

_Now, as your long-time friend who is worrying herself sick I'm going to ask you a favor: Let me send you a cell phone. I would feel so much better if I could check in with you each day. I know you're probably paranoid that I'll use it to track you or something, so at the very least try to get one yourself! You remember my phone number, right?_

_Stay safe, Harry._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

_PS – Be careful about sending Hedwig with post. I imagine the Order will try to track her. (I can't believe I'm giving you advice to help you evade Dumbledore! You owe me. A lot.)_

_PPS – How are you handling missing Sirius? You don't have to answer if you don't want to._

As Harry read this long missive, his heart seemed to swell in his chest. It lacked the eager enthusiasm of Ron's letter, but in a lot of ways it was much better. Hermione didn't approve, but she understood much better than Ron did. And, best of all, she was willing to help him in any way that she could. He hadn't missed the fact that there had not been a single mention of homework or O.W.L. results. That alone made him inclined to believe that she was as worried as she said she was. But should he trust her to send the phone without charming it? Harry thought she wouldn't have mentioned it if she had bad intentions, and he thought that a tracked phone probably wouldn't make it through the owl office without being debugged anyway.

He grabbed two sheets of parchment and inked his replies.

_Ron,_

Yeah, mate, it was pretty crazy. No, I'm not captured by Death Eaters. Thank your mum for me, but tell her that I'm safe where I'm at. (Well fed and clothed too, if she's wondering.) That's great about the Canons.

Harry

And to Hermione:

_Hermione,_

_Thank you. You know what for. Send me the cell phone ASAP. I trust you, and I look forward to talking to you. (But don't expect me to tell you where I am!) I'm actually pretty safe and well-disguised here. I don't expect to be found out. I promise to do a lot of spell research this summer. You would be so proud – I spent last night reading books! Don't worry about Hedwig. I've taken care of it. As for Sirius, I'm getting on with getting on if you know what I mean._

_Don't worry,_

_Harry_

That done, Harry sealed the scrolls of parchment with a spell, and he sent them off with Hedwig, reminding her to take them by the owl office and pass them off to other birds so that she wouldn't be put at risk.

[][][][][][]

Granger Home, Later that afternoon…

Hermione Jean Granger was sitting by her parents' swimming pool, reading a worn-out copy of Emma, on the pretext of getting a tan. Well, actually she was just staring at the pages without really seeing them. Jane Austen was one of her favorite summer reads, despite what the other girls at school might think of her tastes, but she couldn't seem to make herself care about the novel at all today. Oh well, she thought, at least she was getting some mileage out of the little white polka dot bikini that her mother had bought her. It wasn't like she could ever wear it at Hogwarts, not that she would tell her parents that. She hitched a smile onto her face and looked up from the book to give her mother a wave.

Emily Granger was working in the kitchen, where she could see her daughter from the window. Hermione's muggle parents always spent the first part of summer trying to reconnect with their witch daughter by buying her small gifts or taking her out to the local playhouse or cinema. This year they had taken it a step farther. She had been surprised when they told her that they had actually closed down their dental practice for most of the summer in order to spend more time with her. They would only be taking emergency patients for the next two months.

Hermione was simultaneously pleased and wary at the thought of so much "quality time" with her parents. Just two and a half months away from her seventeenth birthday, she was nearly an adult in the wizarding world, and the natural distancing between her and her parents that came with growing up was only exacerbated by the fact that she hardly ever saw them anymore. What was even worse was that almost everything they thought they knew about her life at school was a lie.

Emily and Robert Granger sent weekly letters to their daughter while she was away, and Hermione had replied to them all dutifully. But after first year, she found that she was keeping more secrets than not, and her letters became elaborately contrived stories about the minutiae of her daily life. She told them about Quidditch and grades and gossip and prefect duties, and she described Hogsmeade weekends in such loving detail that her parents were under the impression that these were a weekly occurrence. She couldn't tell them the truth, because they loved her too much to let her go to a school where she was attacked by basilisks or fought off groups of terrorists (How else would she explain Death Eaters to them?) with only her friends for help. Hermione knew, even as a second year, that if her parents learned how truly dangerous the wizarding world was for her she would be pulled out of Hogwarts and put into a private muggle boarding school. And Hermione had decided from the very moment when she had cast her first spell, that the magical world would be her world for the rest of her life.

Her parents had complained frequently that they didn't know her anymore, that sometimes she seemed like a stranger. She couldn't bring herself to tell them that this was exactly the case. Instead, she sat out here in the warm sunlight, sipping on a lemonade, and pretending to read a book while in reality she was worrying about whether or not her best friend Harry was being tortured to death by the most powerful psychopath the world had ever seen. Sometimes, she thought as she watched her mother taking a roast out of the oven, ignorance was the only way for a person to be happy.

A brown post owl interrupted her gloomy thoughts just then, and she almost fell out of her lounger in her haste to take the letter off of its leg. Harry's letter was, of course, frustratingly short and devoid of the information she really wanted. Wherever had he gone that the Order hadn't managed to find him yet? But, it did help her to relax somewhat as she sat back down. Harry was safe for now, and he would let her send him the phone. Good. She needed a fellow wizard to talk to now that her parents had decided that they should spend every waking moment with her, and Harry was a much better choice than Ron. As much as she liked Ron, he wasn't much good when it came to conversation or emotional depth.

Harry had said he trusted her. Hermione was grateful for that. She had been doing a lot of thinking since the fiasco at the Department of Mysteries. At first, she was angry with Harry for getting them all into that mess. Then, she was upset with herself for going along with it, but eventually she had gotten over both of these. Now, she was really pissed off with every authority figure at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She had a lot of respect for people like McGonagall and Dumbledore, and she thought that if Harry would take the time to go to them for help on occasion they would all get into a lot less scrapes. But, this past year the failures of the school administration had been borderline unforgivable. Umbridge and that shoddy excuse for a class, the Ministry's mandates, blood quills and inquisitorial squads – either the headmaster didn't have the influence that she had thought he did, or he was incompetent, or he thought that correcting the injustices at Hogwarts was less important than keeping up with his manipulations. Any way you looked at it, the Professors and Dumbledore could no longer be trusted blindly.

Harry, on the other hand, was inexperienced and rash, but his potential shone like a beacon for anyone with the sense to look. He was quick-witted, and he had the best natural leadership abilities she had ever encountered. The work he had done with the DA last year had proved that. Furthermore, Harry was predictable in the best way. He always did what he thought was right, regardless of whether it was easy or not. Hermione didn't always understand how he arrived at his conclusions about right and wrong, but it was comforting to know that he at least held himself to that standard. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, though he hated the title, and people were starting to call him The Chosen One. Hermione didn't know about the last, but she had a feeling that Harry was going to play the pivotal role in the upcoming war; and she was determined to be behind him every step of the way.

Her mother would be happy at the thought of going shopping with her for the phone. Her parents were under the impression that Hermione was sweet on Harry, simply because she frequently mentioned him in her letters. Truthfully, Hermione wasn't keen on anybody in a permanent-relationship kind of way, and she and Harry would be a terrible couple. She wondered sometimes if something was wrong with her, because she really had no inclination to develop a long-term romance with anyone…ever. On the contrary, she was considering a summer fling with a good looking neighbor named August who lived across the street. He had seemed interested when he passed by her house yesterday, and it wasn't like anyone at school would ever know. Anything to get her out from under the awkward lies she was forced to spin around her parents…

She and her mother left for the mall less than an hour later. Emily Granger chattered happily at her daughter, and Hermione made all the correct responses with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Neither of them noticed the Disillusioned wizard who stood in the hedges at the edge of their yard.

[][][][][][]

As the expensive-looking muggle conveyance (it was called an atomovile perhaps?) left the driveway, Amycus Carrow continued to reach out with his magic to gain a sense of the wards around the place. They were more than the standard courtesy wards that the Ministry erected around the homes of all mudbloods. But that was to be expected, considering who lived here. Dumbledore's little group must have had a hand in placing these wards. He carefully reached out with one hand to touch the barrier. A net of golden threads sparkled faintly at the tips of his fingers. Strong, he thought, but breakable. As with most things, all it would take was a little more time.


	10. The Apothecary's Assistant

Chapter 10 – The Apothecary's Assistant

Harry Potter loathed dusty, smelly basements and fetal hinkypunks. He thought he might hate Zakarias Zate as well, but he was still reserving judgment on that one. The man was a nightmare to deal with, but what he was teaching Harry was fascinating. Well, it had been fascinating…until the shop opened and Harry had been consigned to the dark underground supply basement and ordered to "properly arrange the newest shipments." Zate had given him no further instruction, and when he had asked how he ought to do it, the apothecary had snapped something about not needing an assistant too brainless to figure it out on his own.

The basement was filled with rows and rows of shelves and wooden casks. Strings of dried ingredients hung from the low ceilings, and thousands of bottles and jars of every imaginable shape and size glittered in the faint white light of the glowing orbs that clung to the walls and ceiling like large soap bubbles. The smell of the whole place was overpowering. Spices, formaldehyde, blood, mold, and a hundred other strange scents filled the air.

Harry looked down at the book in his lap. He had been at this for two hours now, and he had only managed to shelve half a box of supplies. The 30-pound jar of fetal hinkypunks beside him was proving particularly difficult. After the first fifteen minutes or so of examining the labels on all the shelves, he had arrived at the dreadful conclusion that Zate organized his ingredients based on how they commonly functioned in potions rather than by the much more sensible (in Harry's opinion) alphabetical method. Harry had resigned himself to the task and summoned his potions books from his room at the Doxy Closet. What did it matter if anyone in Knockturn Alley saw books flying through the air? The more advanced texts, to his surprise, were rather unhelpful, but the second half of his first year book…the part of the book they hadn't gone over in class of course… contained an ingredients glossary that listed the major uses of many common ingredients. At the very least, by the time he had finished shelving everything Harry would be much more knowledgeable about his potions ingredients.

He shoved the hinkypunks to the side and fished around in the box for the next item. He was eager to be through with this so that he could go work upstairs with Zate. If he was constantly in sight, he might wheedle more lessons out of the man. Harry's mind buzzed with everything he had learned as he went to hang a string of dirigible plums in the "stabilizers" section of the basement.

Zate seemed to know somehow just what information would be useful for his new assistant. Harry hadn't told him that he wanted to refuse an invitation to the Malfoy birthday party, of course. That would have been too suspicious, but to his pleasure Zate had begun talking about birthdays without any prompting. He said that it was important for Hephaestus to understand what all of the events were like for "practitioners" of the "old ways." Harry was beginning to get the impression that when Zate said this he actually meant Dark wizards, because although he gave excellent information from a regular pureblood perspective, sometimes he would add things like, "That's how it's done in high society in general, of course. But if they're practitioners of the old traditions then you have to…"

Birthdays, according to Zate, weren't particularly special. Invitations could be refused very easily with just a formally worded, "I'm sorry, but I'm not coming." The invitee could send a gift along on the day of the party as a way of saying they wished they could have been there. Sixteenth birthdays, though, were special if the person in question was "a practitioner of the old ways." Unfortunately, Zate didn't seem to want to spell anything out explicitly for his pupil. (Harry imagined that he wanted to keep the fact of his knowledge about Dark wizards something of a secret.) But, Harry learned that on their sixteenth birthday Dark wizards were considered by their parents and their community to have left childhood and moved into adulthood. In practice, they might not be treated that way, but traditionally a sixteen year old was an adult for all intents and purposes.

Harry rummaged through the box of supplies until he found another ingredient he recognized. It would be nice, he mused, to be a Dark wizard on your sixteenth birthday. People were supposed to gift them with things that would be useful in their adult life, and they received "wishes" for their futures in the form of different flora. A very few other wizards did the same thing as a kind of "quaint amusement" Zate had told him with a sneer, but Dark witches and wizards actually burned the wishes they received in a coming of age ceremony that was thousands of years old. By scenting the parchment of the invitations with sage, Malfoy was subtly letting those who were aware of the old traditions know what his own "wish" for himself was. Harry had looked sage up in the potions text. It was a common symbol for wisdom.

Zate went on to tell Harry about the ceremonies surrounding weddings, funerals, births, and some of the wizarding holidays. Harry had never heard of most of the holidays before, and he said so. Zate's expression became pained. "So few observe them anymore," he said. "It's more common to celebrate the simpler holidays that the Muggleborns bring with them. These old ones have been left behind."

"Does it matter?" Harry asked. He thought of most holidays as having little meaning, but seeing the growing look of anger on Zate's face he quickly backtracked. "I mean, I know it's significant from a historical perspective and everything, but do they have meaning in a modern context?"

"Oh, it matters, boy," said the old apothecary in a deadly voice. "These holidays that everyone partakes of now are nothing more than light pleasures. People get as much substance from them as they would from a party or vacation. But the old holy days…" His look became wistful and almost reverent. "They changed the wizards and witches who observed them. The traditions for those days taught the wizards about magic and the magic about wizards. Days of such power shouldn't be forgotten."

Harry still wasn't sure what exactly Zate had meant, but again, the apothecary wouldn't go into great detail. "You'll have to find out on your own," he had said to the persistent questions of the younger wizard. "I'm afraid it's not something I can share with you yet."

Their lessons for the day had ended there, and Harry was hungry for more. He wasn't supposed to work tomorrow, but if he showed up anyway…

[][][][][][]

At 3 AM, Harry finally finished as much as he could without a better reference source. The hinkypunk jar, along with about thirty other items, was piled neatly beside the now empty boxes and crates they had come in. His back was aching, he was dirty, and he suspected that he smelled funny. The sounds coming from upstairs told him that there were still customers coming in from time to time, but the early evening rush seemed to have disappeared. He cast a scouring charm on his robes and headed up to talk to Zate.

Zate was busy with a man in forest green robes who was examining crystal phials full of different types of blood. Harry thought the two must be acquaintances, because the apothecary was acting much less abrasive than usual. He stood unobtrusively behind the counter while he waited for the man to leave. There was no one else in the shop. After a few minutes, the man in green made a curious gesture, running the back of his left thumb down the side of his face from forehead to mid-cheek. Zate acknowledged the gesture with a matching one, and the man left the shop with a vial of manticore blood clutched in his fist.

The apothecary turned around when Harry cleared his throat. "Are you finished, Hephaestus? It took you long enough." he said.

"Not exactly, Mr. Zate. I didn't know where to put some of it."

Zate snorted. "Why the devil not, boy? What were you doing in there all this time?" he demanded.

"I didn't even know what half of the things in there were!" Harry exclaimed. "How was I supposed to shelve them?"

"Mighty Morgaine, boy! You didn't just put things in random places did you? I'll never be able to sort it out!" The old apothecary was starting to turn red, a sure sign of danger.

"No, I used an old potions book to figure it out, but not everything was listed," said Harry placatingly.

"That won't do," said Zate. "That won't do at all, boy. I'm not going to be able to stand over you giving you instructions the whole time you work."

"I could go find another book, I guess."

Zate rolled his eyes. "Well, if you know what to do why are you pestering me? Go get a book and finish the job."

"Right," said Harry, heading for the door. "Err…where should I get it from?"

The old wizard muttered something about the incompetence of youth these days under his breath before saying, "You'll want to get your hands on a copy of Corgood's Encyclopedia of Essential Ingredients."

"Okay."

"No, not okay. You won't be able to find one in Knockturn Alley, not unless Burke's managed to filch one from somewhere. But even if he had it would cost you an arm and a leg. It's been illegal in Britain since the Dark Ages."

"Mr. Zate!" Harry cried. "What do you expect me to do?"

Zate stared at him. "Really, Hephaestus, you're much too high-strung. I was about to suggest something."

His assistant groaned. "Come here, boy," the apothecary commanded. He waved his wand at the front of the shop, and Harry heard the door lock and saw the sign flip around to "Closed." Zate led him behind the burgundy velvet curtain that separated one small corner of the shop from the rest.

Harry looked around with interest. This was clearly something like an office. The elderly wizard had a desk cluttered with papers and a plush brocade armchair. Zate waved his wand again to light the globes that clung to the ceiling. "Alright, Hephaestus," he said. "Now, repeat after me. I, Hephaestus Peverell,"

"I, Hephaestus Peverell," said Harry accommodatingly.

"Do solemnly swear on my blood and magic."

"Hang on! What am I supposed to be swearing to?"

Zate sighed. "At least you're not a complete fool, but you are horribly inconvenient you know. I thought an assistant was supposed to make things easier."

"Well if you want me to leave, you can go finish shelving those ingredients yourself," said Harry testily. "I think the Niffler bile is leaking."

The apothecary seemed to find this comment amusing, because he began to laugh wheezily. "Oh, lad! There's no need to be so prickly. You really must develop a thicker skin."

His assistant continued to frown at him. "I'm not going to swear an oath about anything without you telling me what it's for!"

"I'm going to give you a special portkey that will take you to a library so that you can get the book you'll need. I want you to swear to give it back to me when I ask you to."

"Oh," Harry was confused. "I would have done that anyway."

"I'm not doubting your honesty, Hephaestus, but this particular portkey cost me a year's earnings and a lot of skullduggery besides." He turned his bad hand over and concentrated on it for a moment. "See that?" he asked, pointing at the pale silver lines that had appeared on his palm. They formed a circular symbol with Latin writing around its edges."

Harry stared curiously. "What is it?"

"That's the portkey, boy! Flesh-bound and blood-inscribed. Illegal in every country of the world except for Canada. Not much is illegal in wizarding Canada. Nothing that I can think of anyway." Zate pulled a silver knife out of the pocket of the leather apron he was wearing and begin to dig at the flesh of his palm. Harry watched in fascination and no little concern as the wizard unearthed a small metal disk from his own hand.

"Hurt a bit, that did," he noted. He waved his wand over his hand and it healed until nothing more than a pink mark remained. With another wave the disk was completely free of blood."The oath, Hephaestus," he said firmly. Harry gave it without further question, promising to return the portkey to Zate whenever he requested it.

Five minutes, a lot of blood, and a very sore hand later, Harry could see the same silver lines on his right palm. "How does it work?" he asked.

"Tighten your hand into a fist, and say 'bibliotheca'," said Zate. "To return, do the same thing but say, 'domus.'" He frowned. "Mind you don't mention to the librarians that it's a borrowed portkey. They probably wouldn't throw you out, but there's no need to upset them."

"Thank you," said Harry. "Should I…"

Knocking could be heard from the front. Apparently a customer wanted to be let in. "Off with you, lad!" said Zate. "Hurry back so that you can finish the unpacking!"

[][][][][][]

Out of the corner of his eye, Zate saw the boy clench his fist, whisper the word and vanish. He sighed. He was really losing his touch with old age. He used to be much more cautious. It was just so surreal to have Harry Potter unpacking boxes full of dark potions ingredients in his basement that he wasn't sure what to do with himself.

The teen was eager enough to learn, especially for someone of his age, and he didn't seem nearly as squeamish about some things as Zate had expected him to be. When the Potter/Peverell heir (what a ludicrous combination of genetics!) had asked him what the human teeth in the window could be used for, the apothecary had candidly replied that it was useful only in potions that lead to the enslavement, usually permanent, of the imbiber. He also mentioned that he had brewed one just last month at the request of a client. He had expected the Light-taught wizard to be disgusted. Part of him had been hoping that the boy would cut and run at this piece of information; Zate's life would be simpler in a lot of ways if he had.

But Hephaestus, or Harry, had only appeared thoughtful. He had asked why someone would want to brew such a potion, and Zate had rattled off a list of reasons he could think of (most of them very bad, but a few of them not so much so). The boy had nodded, glanced back at the teeth as though seeing them for the first time, and then asked with innocent curiosity whether fingernails were used for the same sort of thing.

So it seemed that Zate would keep teaching and hoping, and the boy would keep learning. It was quite the gamble, all things considered. It could, Zate thought as he let the annoyed wizard at the door into the store, be the doom of his kind to teach this youngling any more of their ways. But maybe, just maybe, it would be their salvation.


	11. The Library

Chapter 11 – The Library

Using the portkey didn't give Harry the sick naval-jerk feeling that he had expected. Instead, there was a momentary rush of color, and he was quite suddenly standing somewhere that was definitely not Knockturn Alley. In fact, judging by the magnificent sunrise that was staining the atmosphere in pale shades of pink and yellow, he wasn't even in Britain anymore.

Harry looked around in wonder. He was in a large formal garden, standing next to a tinkling fountain. Flowers and trees of every description created a riot of color, and the air smelled strongly of roses. He stood on a stone pathway just a few yards from a grand set of marble stairs that led to an imposing gray-marble building that dominated the landscape. It was huge. A man in a parka appeared just a few feet away from Harry, and looking very out of place, hurried up the steps and into the building. Its twelve foot tall double doors opening to admit him just before he reached them.

Reminding himself that he had only come to get a book, not to sightsee, Harry hastened up to the doors as well. As he approached, he noticed a sudden warmth in his palm and without so much as the noise of a squeaky hinge, the doors opened. He stepped into the most amazing library he had ever seen.

It would have been Hermione's idea of heaven, Harry thought, as he looked out from a balcony (Shouldn't he be at ground level still? How on earth did wizarding architects come up with this sort of thing?) over a room the size of two Hogwarts quidditch pitches. Dark wooden shelves rose up out of a sea of deep green marble. Between each tall set of shelves, burgundy carpet runners covered the floor and matched the heavy velvet drapes that were pulled back to let the early morning sunlight in through the floor–to-ceiling windows. A few witches and wizards were visible perusing the shelves, but there was no one who looked like a librarian in sight. Thinking of the one muggle library he had been in, Harry looked around in vain for a card catalog.

"How am I going to find it?" he wondered out loud.

Within a second of this query, there was a sharp cracking sound to his left, and Harry turned to see a creature that resembled a black-furred, beady-eyed house elf. It was dressed in a vest and trousers that matched the library's curtains, and gold lettering on its vest read "Biblotheca". The creature had an unfriendly expression on its face, far different from the subservient looks of adoration he was used to receiving from house elves. When it spoke, it's voice was distinctly bossy, and Harry understood from the tone that it had asked a question. Unfortunately, it had spoken in Latin.

"Sorry," said Harry. "I only speak English."

The creature blinked at him, then sighed in clear exasperation. "Of course you do, you cretin," it said sarcastically. "I, a mere library elf, speak thirty-seven tongues, but arrogant wizards can't even be bothered to learn the lingua franca anymore. Why I assist any of you at all, I don't know! What do you want?"

Definitely not like a house elf, Harry decided. There was no way the two could possibly be related considering the creature's attitude. Best to just get right to the point. "I'm looking for a copy of Corgood's Encyclopedia of Essential Ingredients."

"It will be in the English language library," the creature said in a bored voice. "Give me your hand, and I will send you there."

Without waiting for Harry to reach out, the library elf grabbed his hand and flipped it over. It tapped the center of his palm, where the portkey was located, and he felt himself caught up in another momentary rush of color. When it ended, he was standing in another part of the library, very similar to the first but more cramped and without the windows. Instead, light globes like those at Zate's floated just a few feet overhead. The overall effect was a bit eerier, but still pretty in Harry's opinion.

He had landed between two shelves that seemed to contain nothing but books on dragon husbandry. While Hagrid might find this entertaining, he was merely shocked that so many people had thought it worth writing about at some point. Stepping out into the corridor between this set of shelving and the next, Harry searched for any indication of which direction the potions section might be in. Plaques with arrows on them were placed at the end of each line of shelves, but to Harry's dismay, these were all written in Latin and some other language he wasn't sure of.

He wandered around for several minutes, looking down rows to read the titles of the books (which were in English to his relief). Occasionally, he found little islands between the shelves with extra light globes and comfortable-looking seating. Ten minutes into his search, he passed a group of elderly witches sitting on fat little poufs in a circle; they were chatting, and he noted that they had distinctly American accents. Ten minutes after that, he was very frustrated and thoroughly lost. He hadn't seen another soul, and his attempts to call the library elf had failed. He had wandered into a section that seemed to be dedicated to Dark magic, and he slowed down for a moment to look at the titles as he passed. After hesitating for a minute, he picked up one book called Dark Defense. What would it hurt to know more after all? Still, he felt odd carrying it around the library in plain sight. He had a momentary vision of Dumbledore popping around the next set of shelves and seeing him.

Feeling stupid but being unable to shake the feeling that someone might see him with the book, Harry quickly pulled off one of his socks and transfigured it into a bag. He was pleased that it didn't look half-bad, and he shoved the book down into it. More confident now, he kept going. He really needed to get back to the apothecary's soon, but he didn't feel too concerned about it. After all, Zate was the one who had sent him off without telling him how to find the book. Now, he seemed to have walked into the Dark theory section, and though he wasn't as interested in these titles, one in particular seemed to jump out at him. It was probably because it reminded him of what he had been learning from Zate earlier in the evening. The book was thin and leather-bound, looking almost like a journal, and its title was written on its spine in spidery red script. To Be Dark: The Days That Make and Ties That Bind. Almost without thinking about it, Harry reached up and touched the book. He stroked one finger down the spine, noticing how cool and soft it was to the touch, then he slipped it from its place on the shelf and placed it in his bag.

He was just about to move on, when he caught a flash of movement from the space made by his removal of the book. Harry stood on tiptoe and peered cautiously through the crack. On the other side of the shelf, another book had been removed from almost the same position as the one he had just taken. It was possible to see through this slim opening to the shelves on the other side of the row. Harry could just make out a figure sitting in the floor of the next aisle, obviously reading the book that had been taken from the shelf just in front of him. The other wizard's face was hidden by the book he was reading, which was called True Patroni: More than Just a Reflection of the Soul. Maybe this stranger could direct him to the potions section of the library? It was worth a try at any rate. Harry had just opened his mouth to speak when the book lowered and he caught sight of a shock of white blonde hair and pale skin. It was Draco Malfoy.

He barely managed to stifle his gasp of surprise. What were the chances that he would run into Malfoy of all people? He should creep away as quickly as possible…or maybe he should hex the blonde on principle? He dismissed the idea at once. It was a bully's tactic. Maybe he could still ask about the potions section. Harry thought that Malfoy liked potions judging from his behavior in Snape's class, so he would probably know. And, there was no reason for him not to answer Hephaestus Peverell, who he had never even met. Something about the thought of talking to his school nemesis while in disguise pleased the small bit of Slytherin in him, so Harry found himself walking to the end of the shelves and around into Malfoy's aisle.

Draco seemed to be absorbed in his book, but he looked up when Harry approached. He raised an elegant eyebrow when the intruder did not pass by but instead stopped in front of him. "Hello," he said in a pleasantly neutral voice.

"Hi," said Harry, feeling nervous even though he knew Malfoy wouldn't recognize him. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm a little lost. Do you know where the potions section is?"

"It's over that way," said the other boy, pointing in the direction from which Harry had come. "All the shelves are labeled alphabetically at the ends, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding it."

Of course Malfoy would know how to speak Latin. Harry really hated being muggle-raised sometimes. "Ummm…I can't read the plaques on the shelves actually." He felt a genuine blush begin to crawl up his neck towards his face. "I don't speak Latin."

"Oh!" Malfoy looked as though he had never considered that someone might not speak the language. "Well, I imagine that would make it quite difficult. I was about to head over that way soon anyway, would you like for me to show you?"

It was a Twilight Zone moment really, Harry thought. Malfoy wasn't being stuck-up or patronizing or rude. He was just showing common courtesy. Was this how he acted with everyone he didn't hate? "I would appreciate that," said Harry.

The other teen stood up, brushing off his elegant navy robes as he did so and tucking the book under his arm. He held out his hand to Harry and smiled, "I'm Draco Malfoy."

The sense of déjà vous was undeniable. Harry had refused his hand in first year. What would Hephaestus do? "Hephaestus Peverell," he said as he reached out to take the other's hand and give it a firm shake.

"It's nice to meet you, Hephaestus," said Draco as the set off together down the rows. "You're the first young person I've seen since I got my library card. It's mostly older witches and wizards who can afford them."

"I'm actually borrowing this one," said Harry, looking down at his palm as he surmised that the portkey must be the library card. "It belongs to my employer."

"Really?" asked Draco. His voice wasn't derisive as Harry might have expected. It retained an inherent haughtiness, but for the most part he sounded curious. "I didn't know that you could do that with them. Where do you work?"

"I've just started working for the apothecary in Knockturn Alley."

If anything, Draco seemed to become even more interested at this statement. "Zakarias Zate's shop you mean? I didn't know he had an assistant. How do you like it?"

"He didn't have an assistant until yesterday. I like it fine. We have some good conversations with each other. I'm rubbish at the assistant part of it to be honest. I'm trying to find a copy of Corgood's Encyclopedia so that I can finish unpacking a shipment of ingredients."

"Corgood's is the best!" Malfoy said enthusiastically. "My godfather gave me a copy of it for Christmas two years ago, and I love it."

Malfoy continued in this vein for some time, and Harry was able to discern from his talking that Severus Snape was his godfather (which made sense really) and that Draco Malfoy was a closet bookworm (which was surprising considering how frequently he teased Hermione). "I've been spending every evening here since I got the card during the middle of my last school term," he admitted. "I just can't get over how many rare volumes this place has."

"Do you go to Hogwarts then?" asked Harry even though he already knew the answer. It wouldn't do to seem too familiar with Malfoy.

"Yes," Draco said. "Do you go to another school or…?"

Harry wondered why he had trailed off, and when he turned to look at the other boy he noticed that he appeared a little unsettled. "What is it?"

Draco shook his head. "It's nothing really. It just occurred to me that you might not go to school at all, and I didn't want to offend you by mentioning it."

For a moment, Harry couldn't decide how to answer. He couldn't tell Malfoy that he went to Hogwarts, but he didn't want to seem like one of the many uneducated street urchins that roamed Knockturn Alley. Maybe a little of the truth mixed with a lie? "My relatives weren't keen on the idea of me going to Hogwarts. We parted ways recently though, and I've been working on educating myself. I'm not too far behind the Hogwarts curriculum."

"Why wouldn't your family want you to go to Hogwarts? Too expensive?"

Harry had the impression that Malfoy wanted to pin down his social standing, but that could just have been his natural bias towards the other boy. Well, he needed to develop his back-story as Hephaestus anyway, so he might as well practice on Draco. It would be best to keep it as close to the truth as possible so that he wouldn't have to worry about the details slipping away from him. "My parents were both magical, but they died when I was younger. I was mostly raised by muggle relations who loathed anything to do with the wizarding world. I've been able to keep up with my studies despite that, but this summer I decided to move away from them for good. I'm staying in Knockturn and working at Zate's for the foreseeable future."

Malfoy looked uncomfortable at the turn the conversation had taken, but to Harry's surprise he didn't make any horrid comments about the inferiority of muggles. He imagined from the look on the other boy's face that he was thinking these things to himself, but all he said was, "I guess that explains it then."

They were quiet until they came to the potions section, at which point Harry expected Malfoy to go his own way. Instead, Draco trailed after him as he searched for the book. When he finally found the tremendous, dog-eared tome, he put it into his bag. "I guess I had better go," he said awkwardly to Malfoy. "It's pretty late, and I have to be back to help close up the shop."

"Pretty early you mean," said Malfoy. "It's nearly 4:30."

"I guess," Harry was about to clench his fist around the portkey and whisper the word that would take him back to the apothecary when he realized something. "What are you doing out at this hour? I thought only Knockturners stayed up through the night. Shouldn't you be at home in bed?"

"I'm waiting to meet someone here," said Draco, and Harry couldn't help but notice the happiness in his voice. "Every three nights or so my father uses his own library card to come here, and we meet up at one of those little sitting alcoves just a few rows over."

Harry's heart skipped a few beats. How could Lucius Malfoy come to the library? He was supposed to be in Azkaban! Maybe he had escaped? But surely Draco wouldn't mention it if he had? "Not to be rude or anything," said Harry in the politest voice he could manage under the circumstances, "but isn't your father in prison?"

Malfoy scowled. "I suppose you read it in the Prophet," he said stiffly.

"Yes," said Harry. "So how does he…"

"The library cards are the most powerful kind of portkeys known to man," snapped Malfoy. "They work even from Azkaban, and they can't be removed without the possessor's consent."

"Oh," said Harry. "I didn't mean to upset you. I was just curious about it." This wasn't entirely true of course. He didn't particularly care if Malfoy was upset, but he was dying to know more. Why didn't Lucius Malfoy just escape from the prison if he could portkey to the library?

"Yes, well, I suppose it can't be helped with what Skeeter's been writing up lately." Malfoy's frown deepened. "Most of it is complete swill of course."

"She's not a very trustworthy journalist," Harry said even though he couldn't think of what lies she might have told about Lucius Malfoy. Was Draco referring to the fact that he was a Death Eater or something else?

"I mean," he griped, "last week she wrote that the Ministry was considering the release of 'an insane murderer responsible for the deaths of nearly two thousand of our muggleborn brethren.' Only fifteen hundred muggleborns have died all together since the beginning of the first war more than twenty years ago, so I don't know where she's pulling this tripe from."

Malfoy eventually noticed that his companion had gotten silent, and he looked over at him. Harry was staring at him in shock. No one ever talked about the war so casually these days, yet here was Draco Malfoy quibbling over the number of casualties attributed to his father's wand. By not denying the obvious implication, he had practically admitted that Lucius was a Death Eater! Malfoy must have lost his mind.

"Did I surprise you?" Draco asked curiously. "I know most people don't discuss the war in public, especially not…affiliations…, but with the charms on the library there's no real reason not to do so."

"Charms?" Harry asked, aware that his voice was a little higher than usual.

"Yes, loads of them. You can't deliberately harm anyone in here, for one thing, and nothing that you hear from another person while in the library can be spoken about to anyone else or pulled from your mind by a legilimens. Even if you met someone else in here, you couldn't go repeat any of the conversation we're having now to them. The spells have been in place for nearly a thousand years, and they've never failed once."

Harry had never heard of magic like that. "Wow, that's…"

"Wicked isn't it? No one knows who cast them, but as a result, the library is a sort of international sanctuary. The only way to get in or out is with a library card. If you're on the run from someone, you can always portkey here and be safe for a while. But it's no good long-term, because if they know you've got the library card then they'll just wait for you to come back. No one can bring any food into the library at all, so you'd eventually starve."

"It's pretty amazing," Harry agreed wholeheartedly. "So your father comes from Azkaban and you just meet up to talk?"

"Yes," said Draco. "We met here during the last half of the school year as well. He's been teaching me some things that I need to know before…well, I'm going to be participating in a family ceremony in a few days, and I have to know a lot of stuff beforehand."

Harry thought he was probably referring to his birthday and the coming of age ceremony, but he didn't understand why Draco would practically tell a complete stranger that his father was a Death Eater if he felt the need to hide the fact that he was a Dark wizard. Maybe being Dark was an even bigger secret? How could that be so? He couldn't wait to get back to the Doxy Closet and read his new books.

"Would you like to meet him?" Draco asked suddenly.

"Your father?" asked Harry, hoping he didn't sound as panicky as he felt. Safety charms aside, he did not fancy another encounter with Lucius Malfoy just a few short weeks after firing hexes at him in the Department of Mysteries.

Apparently Malfoy had caught his tone, because he laughed, not cruelly like he usually did when he was with Harry Potter, but almost good-naturedly. "Don't worry, Hephaestus" he said. "He won't bite you. Besides, he and Zate know each other very well, so he'll be interested to meet you."

Harry thought that Malfoy must have found some way around the library's protective charms and Imperioed him. Somehow after all his protests and assurances that Zate would kill him if he did not get back to the store immediately, he soon found himself seated in a comfortable chintz armchair beside Draco Malfoy, waiting for Voldemort's former right-hand man to arrive from a high-security cell in Azkaban prison. If Hermione knew what he was doing, she would have an aneurism. Ron, thought Harry gloomily, would simply never speak to him again.

For some reason, Harry had been expecting a fanfare or a dark sense of foreboding to announce the arrival of Lucius Malfoy…the crack of an apparition at the very least, but the Death Eater simply appeared around a shelf of books without a sound. He smiled broadly when he spotted his son, and Draco leapt up from his seat and strode over to greet him. Harry stood up awkwardly and watched as the two blondes embraced. Malfoy Sr. showed the unmistakable signs of his brief imprisonment. His gray prison robes were ugly and threadbare, and the dark circles under his eyes and his unkempt hair were strange to see. But, despite all of this, he had somehow retained the arrogantly graceful bearing he had had before he was captured. Harry couldn't help but feel simultaneously resentful and admiring of the strength this showed, then the two of them were stepping toward him, and he was fighting off the urge to either run or vomit out of sheer nerves.

"My son tells me that you are working for Zakarias Zate. I'm Lucius Malfoy," said Lucius as he extended his hand.

Harry shook it quickly then dropped it as soon as he could without being rude. "Yes," he said simply. Malfoy raised one eyebrow as if to remind the younger wizard of something. "I'm Hephaestus Peverell," Harry added. "Nice to meet you," he lied.

Both of the older blonde's eyebrows had shot up when Harry introduced himself. "Indeed, Mr. Peverell. Draco did not mention your surname when he was telling me about you. Tell me, wherever did you come by it?"

Draco Malfoy looked a bit confused by his father's question, but Harry had cottoned on almost as soon as the words were out of Lucius' mouth. The elder Malfoy had obviously heard the name Peverell somewhere before, and he must know that it belonged to a family of Dark wizards...supposedly dead Dark wizards. Harry hadn't thought that this would be a problem. The goblins had never mentioned that others would still be familiar with a family name that had died out centuries ago! "A heritage I've had for a while now," he said. He was pleased that his voice sounded completely normal. No need to mention that the "while" was just under a week.

"In that case, young Peverell, it is certainly very nice to meet you too. I'm surprised Zate hasn't mentioned you to me before now, all things considered," said Lucius with a cool smile.


	12. Breakfast, Books, and Birthdays

Chapter 12 – Breakfast, Books, and Birthdays

Fetal hinkypunks, it transpired, were used in resurrection potions. They had very likely been a primary ingredient in the potion that restored Voldemort to a corporeal form, and loving parents who didn't particularly care about the Ministry's rules often used them in animal resurrection potions for their children's recently-deceased pets. Harry thought this was rather awful, as the resurrected animals didn't retain their old personalities at all…pity the same thing hadn't applied to Voldemort. The hinkypunks were the final item Harry shelved before he finished for the night.

He had a bit of time for further conversation with Zate as they tidied the shop up, and upon hearing that Harry had had difficulty finding things in the library, the apothecary had agreed to add basic Latin into their lessons. "I don't see how you could achieve much success in the wizarding world without it really," he had said. "All the purebloods, except for the least respectable families, learn it from the cradle."

At 6:30 AM, Harry walked out into a sunlit Knockturn Alley. It looked hopelessly grimy and forlorn in the daylight, when only a few shops stayed open. The night covered a lot of the ugliness that was revealed when the sun came up. He heard an excited squeal behind him and turned to see Robin emerging from her robe shop with a brown paper-wrapped package in her arms.

"H.P.!" she cried, hurrying over to him. "What are you doing out so early?"

"I'm working for Zate now," he said. "Apothecary's assistant."

She goggled at him. "Oh, wow! I hadn't thought he'd ever get anyone to do it. Did he make you agree to work for him in exchange for telling you how to write that letter?"

"Sort of," said Harry. "He's teaching me loads of other things too for as long as I work here."

"Well as long as you can put up with him I guess," she said doubtfully. "I was just going to stop by the Doxy Closet on the way to my flat to drop this off for you." She gestured with the package. "It's what I've finished so far. You wanna come in and give it a try on?"

"Sure," Harry agreed readily. He was sick to death of wearing the same scourgified robes each day.

Ten minutes later he emerged from Robin's fitting room, in one of the "everyday" outfits she had finished for him. She wolf whistled and applauded enthusiastically as he spun on the spot for her. He smiled self-consciously. He knew from his brief look in the mirror that the robes looked great on him. They weren't anything like the bulky school robes he was used to. The midnight blue robes were made of a sturdy but light fabric that flowed well when he walked. (He was entertaining the idea of practicing to make them swish behind him like Snape's did purely to annoy the potions master.) They had a Mandarin color and were tailored to be form-fitting from shoulder to waist. All-in-all, they made him look much more grown up.

The other set of everyday robes was shorter, made to be worn with pants showing, and it was done in two tones of brown. Robin had also clearly had a lot of fun picking out his accessories and the muggle clothes. Nothing was what he would have chosen, but he liked it all as soon as he saw it. New trainers in several colors and styles, band (both muggle and wizarding) tees, tight-fitting jeans, and even dress shirts and slacks were neatly folded and pressed. Robin had even gotten him a variety of different hair clamps and tie-backs because "It's just gross to let it hang in your face, and you would look fabulous with it longer!"

"Well, what do you think?" she asked eagerly as he examined himself in the mirror again.

"I love it," he said. "I love all of it." It was true too. He had never had brand new clothes except for his Hogwarts robes, and certainly nothing as nice as the tailored robes.

"Oh, good," she said happily. "I'll have the rest of it ready soon. I just don't have much else going on these days." She frowned at him. "We've got to do something about these though?" she added, pointing at his glasses.

"What's wrong with them?" asked Harry.

"They're ugly," she said baldly.

"Well, I don't have another pair…"

"I know of an optics shop that's probably just opening up in Diagon," she said. "You want me to show you the way, and you can buy me breakfast in exchange?"

After a moment of hesitation, Harry agreed. As a result, he soon found himself eating a full English breakfast at a funny little café called The Dipsy Daisy that was a few shops over from Ollivander's wands. They sat outside in short fat lemon-yellow armchairs and watched as the early morning shoppers began to appear. Across the table, Robin chattered animatedly about clothes and quidditch. She was a huge Puddlemere United fan it seemed. Harry couldn't help but to occasionally wiggle his nose up and down to get used to the feel of one of his two new pairs of glasses frames. They were a better prescription in addition to being more attractive, and he loved how clear the world suddenly looked. The glasses were vaguely rectangular with thin wire rims, and they had a color change charm put on them so that he could match his outfits. Robin began to laugh when she caught him wiggling his nose, and their conversation degenerated into a series of juvenile insults. When, at the end of the meal, Robin mentioned that they should do it again the next day Harry readily agreed.

[][][][][][]

Harry woke in his room at the Doxy Closet at 4PM, and he relished the chance to lay in bed without anyone making demands on his time. He didn't have to work for Zate on weekends, and his only plan for the afternoon was to send the refusal to Narcissa Malfoy. He supposed he would also have to buy Malfoy a present, just to be polite, but he had no idea what to get the other boy. For the first time since he was eleven, Harry was faced with conflicting feelings about his school nemesis. Last night at the library…well…Draco hadn't seemed so bad. A little arrogant, and quite willing to defend his father…who was a Death Eater! But overall, he had been very helpful.

Still pondering this, Harry took his time in the shower. When he emerged, he checked himself in the mirror. He was still Hephaestus Peverell. There had been no unexpected form shifting during the night. He slipped on one of his new t-shirts and a pair of jeans, and set about making his room more habitable. He pulled out his advanced transfiguration book as a reference, and in short order his bedding was much more comfortable. He next turned his magic to the task of making his bedside table into a desk. This took a couple of frustrating tries, but he eventually managed it to his satisfaction. Harry took a break to snack on a sweet roll he had leftover from breakfast, then he began his biggest magical attempt of the day. Conjuration. He needed a chair, and he didn't feel like buying one. Besides, what was the point of being a wizard if you couldn't take care of your basic needs with magic?

This was much more difficult than anything they had ever attempted in class. Conjuration wasn't covered until sixth year, and then it was generally for small items. Harry didn't feel overly confident about his chances, but what would it hurt to try? Taking a relaxed attitude seemed to help, because within an hour he had managed to conjure a very ugly stool. He was so shocked when it popped into being at the foot of his bed that he dropped his wand. After rummaging around amongst the dust bunnies for a while, he retrieved it. Feeling thoughtful, he banished the stool and tried again. Thirty minutes later, Harry was exhausted and sweating, but he was also sitting in a stout chair that was just the right height to slide under his desk.

He couldn't help but smile broadly as he summoned quill and parchment to him. Even Hermione hadn't learned how to conjure yet, and it hadn't taken him all that long. Maybe if he applied himself like this to everything he would learn more quickly. The problem, he thought, was most likely that many of the spells at school seemed frivolous. Why learn how to turn a hedgehog into a pincushion? He just couldn't make himself want to do it. He knew that the principles were important, but why didn't they just study things that would be useful?

He finished writing a very proper letter of refusal to the Malfoys just as Zate had said he should, but he was faced with a dilemma when it came to sealing the letter. He didn't have anything except for candle wax, and that was hardly fancy enough. He prodded at the candle on the side of his desk with his wand thoughtfully…maybe he could change the color? One trip to his charms book and a couple of spells later, the plain wax candle was a lovely shade of Gryffindor red. Zate had said the color didn't particularly matter. Families usually used the colors of their coats of arms, but it wasn't necessary. He dripped the wax onto the parchment then shifted back to Harry Potter to cast the spell Zate had said would imprint the wax with a family seal. He leaned forward curiously to look at the freshly stamped wax. It was an image of a sword cutting the thorns off of a rose. Odd. He wondered what it meant.

He sent Hedwig off with the letter, then sat back down, wondering what to do with himself. I should study he thought, surprising himself. I need to know more than I do right now if I want to survive Voldemort. Harry was tired of being in the dark. He was tired of having to depend on others' protection. If he was the "Chosen One," then he needed to take some responsibility for his abilities. Decided, he collected his newest books and sat down to read. He would read them each for at least an hour a day he decided. It sounded miserable, but he needed to learn.

He started with Basic Rituals, and he was soon thoroughly engrossed. Ritual magic was fascinating. It involved ingredients (much like potions) and runes as well as spell casting. After reading the introduction, which advised that rituals were a dying and usually illegal form of magecraft, he flipped eagerly to the index to find one he wanted to try. The Ritual of Clarity seemed perfect for his first attempt. It was actually one of the first that a ritualist needed to learn because it was often a precursor to more difficult rituals. It would give the practitioner several hours of increased mental function at a time. Unfortunately, he was going to have to obtain a runic dictionary, some basic ingredients, and a ritual knife before he could actually have a go at it. He made himself a shopping list then turned to the next book.

Dark Defense was the most interesting defense text he had ever read. The first spell it taught him was one of the most useful he had learned in his years as a wizard. It was a simple spell called the Absorption Field. The spell created a sphere of fog that a wizard could send spells into to determine whether they had been properly cast or not. After all, it didn't do any good to fire off hexes without a target. The fog changed colors depending on the efficacy of the spell. Harry wondered why on earth such a useful spell was considered Dark magic. The book said it was labeled that way by some authorities because the target sphere was _"an external embodiment of internal magic. Be advised that the Absorption Field should never be used in the presence of other casters or hostile magic due to the risk of magical infection."_

Once he got the hang of casting the Absorption Field, Harry began to work on some of the hexes in the book. The first thing he noticed about Dark spells was that they felt very different from the ones he had learned at school. Normally, when he cast a spell it felt like the magic came from somewhere inside him, like he was forcing some part of himself out through his wand. Dark spells were different. The book hadn't described it, but he could tell. When he cast these, the magic didn't seem to come from inside. It felt like the power was being pulled from the air around him, through him, then into the spell. It was a strange, heady feeling. It was also fairly exhausting. By the end of the hour, Harry was hungry and tired, but he had learned several new spells. His favorite was one called a Reflective Shield that would bounce spells back to the caster. He hadn't perfected it yet, but when he did it would be incredibly useful.

To Be Dark was not quite as practical as Dark Defense, but it was far more informative about the nature of Dark wizardry. Harry had read the introduction, which was frustratingly brief, before flipping through the book at random. Dark magic utilized ambient magic rather than just internal magic, and as a result it tended to be a good deal more powerful and unpredictable. Anyone could cast basic Dark spells, but only true Dark wizards could cast the most powerful of them. Dark wizards observed a number of traditions that regulated how witches and wizards should interact with their own internal magic as well as the ambient magic around them. They held other wizards in contempt for not observing these traditions because casting spells without observing them_ "weakened the fabric of magic itself."_ The book contained a full listing of Dark holidays and instructions for how to celebrate them properly.

_"Due to longstanding prejudice against the Dark community, few countries in the wizarding world allow these holidays to be celebrated in the open, though some are more lenient than others. Britain, for example, is notoriously intolerant. In most such countries, an agreement was reached with the goblin nation in the late 1100's to allow for traveling Dark wizards who lacked other secure locations to conduct the proper ceremonies in the safety of goblin-run banks at no cost to themselves. If you should be in need of such a service, a listing of these banks is provided in the back of the book."_

Harry had, of course, flipped immediately to the back of the book. Gringotts branch – London, was listed for about a half-dozen holidays. One of them, a celebration of midsummer, would be coming up in just a few weeks. He read about the holiday, and overall, it seemed very simple. It didn't appear to be at all the kind of thing that the Ministry ought to make a fuss over. It involved a small ritual wherein the wizard joined his internal magic with the ambient magic and swore an oath to protect the sanctity of magic. Harry had to re-read the oath several times before he understood what it was getting at. It included, among other things, the promise never to "cleave to non-magic" and to "guard the secrets of magic from non-magic." As far as he could determine, it was about not marrying muggles and not telling them about the magical world. The book had mentioned something about this in the introduction.

_"It is one of the greatest tragedies of the modern age that those blessed with magic have chosen to taint their blood with nonmagical blood. This has resulted in a marked increase in the number of squib births and a marked decrease in the power level of witches and wizards. (See the chart on page XIX for further details.) It has also led to the high probability of our world's exposure to those who have no knowledge or respect of magic."_

Harry definitely agreed that muggles in general shouldn't be told about magic. The Dursley's, for example, should never have even heard of it. He wasn't sure about the stricture against marrying muggles, but if the book was right and it led to fewer and weaker wizards then he thought it was a good idea to prohibit it. The book didn't mention muggleborns at all, but he suspected that Dark wizards would be against them simply because they inevitably told a large number of muggles about the magical world.

[][][][][][]

At 9:00 PM, Harry was at The Pub, enjoying an extra large slice of steak and Stilton pie, when a familiar owl swooped low over the crowd and dropped a letter in front of him. "Hello, Taranis," he said. The Eagle Owl squawked loudly and took off into the air again.

Harry looked at the letter. He hadn't expected a reply to his party refusal. But, when he opened it, he realized that the message was not about the party at all.

_Hephaestus Peverell,_

_It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance last night at The Library. My father seemed pleased to meet you as well. As I said before, I am there most nights from 9 to midnight (and sometimes much later), and I would welcome the company of someone my own age if you should ever happen by again. I've enclosed something that I think will make the task of finding books much simpler for you._

_Sincerely,_

_Draconis Lucian Malfoy_

Harry stared at the letter in surprise for a moment before pulling out the other sheet of parchment. He laughed. It was an alphabetized list of all the section titles of the library along with their English translations. Well, it would certainly make it easier to find things until Zate got around to teaching him Latin. How very…friendly of Malfoy.

He left The Pub a little later and went in search of the items on his shopping list. The runic dictionary was easy enough to find, and he just popped into Zate's to buy the herbs he would need. "What are you going to do with lavender and sage, boy? Have you decided to take up aromatherapy?"

The knives proved a bit more difficult. The book had described the specific way to check for good rune knives, but almost everything he found seemed to be cheap knock-off versions. He finally found a likely looking pair of ritual daggers in the back of a weaponry shop that seemed to cater to wealthy customers. The store was filled with ornate swords and knives, and the burly owner watched Harry like a hawk the whole time he was shopping. The small daggers were a little fancier than what he had wanted, but they would do. Both had polished silver handles inlaid with mother of pearl and onyx runes, and one of the blades was made of silver while the other was made of bone. He decided not to ask about what kind of bone it was.

After he bought the knives, he set out in search of a birthday present for Draco Malfoy. He had no clue what the Malfoy heir would want for his birthday, especially since manners dictated that Harry buy him something useful. It occurred to him that he could just buy him something obvious, like a book or even a new cauldron, but that seemed wrong somehow. He felt oddly competitive about this present-buying thing. If Malfoy could send him an invitation, then Harry could buy him a mind-blowingly impressive birthday present. Wouldn't he be shocked to receive a gift from Harry Potter! But what did one buy for someone who literally got everything he wanted?

Wait a minute…Malfoy didn't quite get everything he wanted did he? What a brilliant idea! It was a good present, and Malfoy wouldn't know what to think of it! Humming happily, Harry set off down the street with a plan in mind.


	13. When Pigs Fly

Chapter 13 – When Pigs Fly

The figures appeared almost soundlessly, only soft whispers of air marking their presence. Theran Apoch watched from the window of his small stone cottage as the wizards and witches materialized amongst the scrub brush from every direction on the faintly moonlit moor. The night was a dark backdrop for even darker figures, and as he watched them assemble in the meeting circle just a few yards away, Theran tightened his cloak around him and apparated into their midst.

He appeared with only a tiny susurration of the atmosphere. Dark wizards learned in their youth to apparate with a bare minimum of noise. The young woman next to him startled a little at his arrival but quickly regained her composure. She smiled prettily and, shaking her thick auburn hair out of the way, drew the back of her left thumb down her face from temple to cheek bone, encompassing the pale blue star-like mark that graced that part of her face.

"Old one," she murmured with obvious respect.

"Ms. Greengrass," he replied, repeating the traditional gesture of greeting. "It is lovely to see you here. This is your first Meet since coming of age is it not?"

"Yes, Theran," she said. "My sixteenth was seven months ago."

"Very good," he said simply. And it was good. The last six children to pass into adulthood within the community had been male. The ranks of the Dark were made up mostly of the pureblooded families, and pressure was high in those circles to produce male heirs. Considering the frailty of many pureblooded women, the first child they had was usually their last, and thanks to the potions expertise of Severus Snape, most of them were able to choose the sex of that child. Inbreeding had preserved their traditions, but it hadn't done them many genetic favors.

"And your sister?" he asked. "She will be coming of age within a couple of years?"

"Yes, Astoria is two years younger than me, old one."

He nodded his understanding and was about to question her again when a disturbance on the other side of the group caught his attention. Lucius Malfoy's team of lawyers (and tons of galleons) had apparently worked their magic at last, because he was striding towards the center of the meeting circle looking every bit as regal as he had the last time Theran had seen him. The old Dark wizard rolled his eyes. The Malfoy family hadn't produced a humble scion in generations, and the latest head of house was particularly annoying in his opinion. The idiot boy had joined up with that psychopath who gallivanted around the countryside calling himself a Dark Lord, and even worse, Lucius had dragged young Snape along with him.

Theran supposed he should be less critical. A number of the others had decided to follow Voldemort as well of course. They felt that he offered a chance for overturning the Ministry that had done their kind so much harm over the ages, and in the beginning they believed that they were making their families safer by supporting a leader who would bring an end to the persecution and who would seal off the wizarding world from the muggle one. Of course, everything had gone completely pear-shaped, just as the older Dark ones had predicted it would, and now they were all in a terrible mess. If the main circle of meeting wasn't practically in his back yard Theran might have chosen to skip out on a Meet called by Lucius Malfoy.

It was a good enough turn-out though, all things considered. Forty or fifty souls formed a loose ring around the smooth circular piece of rune-engraved obsidian, ten feet across, that was set into the earth. The air had the faintly ionized, post-rain smell that large group apparitions were prone to causing, and the warm breeze carried the murmurings of the witches and wizards. All mutterings ceased, however, when Malfoy reached the center of the circle. He had brought his son with him, and the boy, looking like a finer-boned version of his father, stood several respectful paces behind his sire. Someone (probably Snape, thought Theran, he considered it beneath him to actually verbalize his spells) summoned up a few light globes to hover over the gathering, and Malfoy began to speak.

"My brethren," he said. "I have called this Meet for a matter of some significance, but before I speak of it, is there anyone here who wishes to make an announcement or request?"

This was the standard way to begin a Meet. The person who called it would take charge and see to it that any minor business was taken care of before they presented their own information. In such a scattered community that was able to meet only infrequently, there was almost always some news to be shared.

Julian Greengrass stepped forward. "I wish to announce that my daughter Daphne is now of age. She is present here tonight as a woman by right and ritual, having chosen to cleave to Darkness of her own free will."

"Ms. Greengrass, will you step into the circle?" Malfoy requested.

She glided elegantly to stand next to Lucius in the center of the group, and after she stopped she again made the gesture of greeting. Malfoy repeated it against his own mark, which was vaguely wing shaped. "Welcome sister," he said.

The gesture and phrase was repeated throughout the group, and Daphne returned to her place. With no other news forthcoming, Malfoy spoke. "As I said, my news is important. Certainly, it warrants this Meet tonight." He looked around the circle as though gauging their interest, then he said simply, "I have found someone who shows potential."

As the gasps and cries of delight filled the night air, Zakarias Zate closed his eyes with a distinctly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to hope that Lucius Malfoy was referring to some new potential Dark wizard unknown to him, but he quickly discarded that thought. The chances were too unlikely. But how had Malfoy found out? He'd barely been out of prison for thirty-six hours!

Zate cursed himself in every language he knew as Malfoy described to the excited gathering how he had run across this potential Dark wizard in the Library. The Library of all places! How in the name of heaven could the boy have run into such a mess in the stupid Library? Zate had been visiting the place for decades and only rarely ran into someone he knew, but Hephaestus spent two hours there and apparently made quite the impression on Lucius Malfoy…who was supposed to be in Azkaban! Now what would he do?

"…quite a pleasant young man," Malfoy was saying. "My son, Draco, found him wandering the stacks. He is undoubtedly a Peverell. Those eyes do not lie."

Zate listened to the conversations that had sprung up around him with a growing sense of dread. As he had known they would be, the Dark wizards were almost giddy with enthusiasm at the thought that a Dark-potentialed child had been found.

"Peverell…Yes, I've heard of the family….How old is the boy?...Who will decide…can we trust…But of course someone will need to speak to his…Powerful family weren't they?... A new child, can you imagine!"

Malfoy shot sparks into the air to bring the crowd back to order. "I will try to answer some of your questions, but I don't know much. I'm afraid I can't share the details of our conversation due to the privacy spells. The boy appears to be fourteen or fifteen years old. He is of wizarding descent, obviously, but given that he is British and that none of us have heard of him before it seems unlikely that he has been raised among wizards. I assume that he has come into the Peverell inheritance fairly recently, possibly just within the last year."

"Oh the poor dear!" cried a witch from somewhere on the other side of the circle. "So young and no family to speak of! However does he get by?"

"Well," said Lucius slowly, as though pondering the best way to dodge the privacy charms. "I can't say anything more, but I imagine Zakarias Zate has something to add."

Dozens of eyes turned on the old apothecary as one, and Zate fought off a strong urge to hex Malfoy into the ground. He promised himself that when he got back to his shop he would curse his assistant with something unpleasant instead. "The boy lives in Knockturn Alley. He's been working for me." There. Let them stew on that.

The gazes of his fellow Dark wizards turned accusing."Well, so what?" he responded to the glares in his best crotchety-old-geezer voice. "A fine assistant. Stacks boxes and crates like a champion, he does."

There was a general upset outcry at this statement, and from the comments, Zate got the distinct impression that his brethren felt that working for Zakarias Zate would turn the boy off of Dark wizardry forever. How rude! So, he found himself telling them something of the truth about how Hephaestus Peverell had come into his shop and been made his assistant. He left out the fact that the young wizard was writing a letter of refusal to a party invitation, and he also steered clear of any information that might indicate to the assembly that Hephaestus was also Harry Potter.

By the end of his tale, no one looked satisfied, but at least they were silent. "Well," Severus Snape said finally. "Leaving aside your decision not to mention the boy's existence. Do you concur with what Lucius has said? Is there a chance that Peverell might choose the Dark?"

Now, thought Zate, would be the perfect time to mention the little problem of his assistant's Harry-Potterness. That would end the discussion for good. The Potter family was almost notorious in these circles for their hatred of Dark wizards. Even more importantly, Harry was a beacon of the Light, their ultimate symbol of hope. Really, what were the chances that he would ever be Dark? He should tell them the truth, tell them that there was no hope of it. But, despite everything, Zate didn't really believe that. Furthermore, and to his eternal mortification, the apothecary liked the boy. He was humorous and curious and rather easy-going; but he was also quite serious-minded for a young person. He showed extraordinary potential.

When he spoke, his words were firm, and he hoped that Snape would have the decency not to read his mind under the circumstances. Legilimenses were such a pain… "I believe that Hephaestus could be brought to the dark."

Again there were excited whispers. Two hours later, the assembled Dark wizards had developed a plan, unfortunately without much of Zate's input. Really, there was no need to silencio him just because he suggested that the weepy witch go drown herself in durbenfug venom. She had been advocating a scheme to adopt Hephaestus for his own good. Stupid woman. In the end, it had been decided that Zate would bring his assistant as his guest to Draco Malfoy's birthday party, where they would have the opportunity to see him and judge for themselves what course of action to take next. His brethren thought this was a brilliant idea. What boy wouldn't be excited to be invited to the social event of the season?

Zate imagined that getting the lad there would probably require at least bribery and trickery and at worst, brute strength and fast spellwork. Poor kid. He had no idea what he was in for. He would be mobbed by witches and wizards eager to bring him into the fold. Everyone would warn their children, who would practically attack the youngling in an effort to "make friends." And what it all boiled down to was the fact that a number of very powerful Death Eaters and their families would spend the evening trying to make Harry Potter feel at ease. What was that muggle phrase to sum up situations like this? When pigs fly? Well…Zate knew a spell for that.


	14. The Present

Chapter 14 – The Present

Wiltshire, June 29th, 11:58 PM

No matter what he tried, he couldn't fall asleep. The silver-embroidered blue satin comforter was too hot, but when he threw it off onto the floor he was too cold. He had already summoned a house elf, who assured him in its squeaky voice that the temperature charms on the manor were functioning normally. The elf had brought him a cup of honeyed hot milk at his instruction, but even that hadn't helped at all. The shot of whiskey he'd followed it with had been equally fruitless. He had read that very dull book on patroni, tidied up his room to some extent, and folded half a bouquet of origami roses that he would give to his mother. Still, he wasn't tired, and he needed to be asleep right now. Tomorrow he would be up until the early hours of the morning, seeing off party guests and completing the coming of age ritual. Instead of dozing in his bed, he was sitting in front of the heatless fire while wearing nothing but his favorite green pajama pants.

The clock on the mantle was ticking ever closer to midnight. Soon, he would be sixteen. It occurred to him that sixteen didn't feel much different than fifteen. He wished it would. He wished that he would feel older, wiser, more in control of his own destiny at the moment that the clock struck midnight. He would be an adult in the eyes of other Dark Wizards, but that only meant that he could speak for himself at their infrequent Meets…and be married too, but he wouldn't do that too soon if he could help it. Of far more concern was the fact that the Dark Lord would soon be calling upon him for the first time in order to question his loyalty. His father had already begun hinting at this and instructing him in how to behave before Lord Voldemort. Lucius Malfoy might have been disgraced by the events at the Department of Mysteries, but he was still a powerful inner circle Death Eater. It wouldn't do for Draco to make a fool of himself in front of his Lord.

Just thinking of it made him ill. He looked at the pristine flesh of his left forearm. What would the Dark Mark look like permanently emblazoned on his skin? What would it be like to be at the beck and call of his father's master? The expectations of his family were clear. Draco was to be ready to respond affirmatively to the Dark Lord's call when it came, and that call could come any day now. His mother was close-lipped on the subject, but he knew her thoughts anyway. She did not want him to be a Death Eater; she feared it would be the death of him. His father was of the opinion that there simply was no other choice. In his talks with his son, he had never indicated that he thought Draco should want to be a Death Eater, but he seemed to think it was an inescapable duty. And, Severus just didn't talk to him very much anymore. Oh, they met often enough, but their conversations had become stiff and polite. Draco very much wished that he could go back to the easier companionship he and his godfather had once shared. All things considered, it was pretty much a given that Draco Malfoy would be a Death Eater before he went back to Hogwarts.

It wasn't so bad really, but he wished he had the chance to make the choice himself. It felt like he was being roped into something life-altering and irrevocable too soon. Sixteen wasn't old enough for this sort of decision surely… and it's not like it was really even a decision was it. It was just something that had to be done. He looked up at the clock. 12:05 AM.

"Happy Birthday, Draco," he murmured to himself. He made his way over to the magnificent canopy bed that dominated one side of his room and crawled under the covers. He'd have another go at sleeping.

An hour later, he was mentally reciting a list of nonreactive potions ingredients in an effort to bore himself to sleep, when he was distracted by the sound of tapping on his window. Eager for something to do, he leapt out of bed, his bare feet slapping against the cool stone of the floor and made his way to the window. He pulled back the heavy draperies, and he was shocked to see a beautiful Snowy Owl sitting on his window sill. Wasn't this Potter's owl? Pansy and the other girls were always going on about how cute it was. How had it gotten here?

He opened the window and the owl swooped into his room and landed on his bedside table. "How did you get here?" he asked indignantly. "We've got anti-owl wards all over the place! You should have to go through the house elves' morning post check first."

The owl only hooted impatiently at him. She was carrying a fairly large package. He bent to read the address. All it said was "Deliver to Draco Malfoy" in a messy scrawl that he thought looked vaguely Potterish. With nothing more than that to go by (trust Potter to be too lazy to properly address mail), the owl must be a V.I.O. Draco was mildly impressed. He hadn't realized that Potter's bird was one, and if he was right and it had broken through the owl wards on the manor to get to his room, then it was even more clever than most. He cast an unknotting spell to untie the package from the bird's legs. He wasn't about to touch something that Potter might have hexed.

The owl glared at him balefully. Now what did it want? "Thank you?" he tried. She hooted in reply and took off through the still-open window. He smiled. Parkinson was right. The bird was far too gorgeous for someone like Potter.

He looked down at the package, prodding it with the tip of his wand. Why would Harry Potter send him mail? True, his mother had mentioned something about receiving a party refusal from him. Personally, Draco was shocked that Potter had even gotten the invitation. Taranis had been trying to deliver the bloody thing for years without success. What was more, his mother had said that the refusal was "surprisingly proper," but Draco chalked this up to dumb luck on the Gryffindor's part.

Draco thought about it for awhile, but he could only think of one reason Potter might send him mail…well, barring the theory that it might be some sort of cursed object that would kill him the moment he touched the paper, and that just didn't seem to be the Golden Boy's style. Potter had properly refused the invitation to the party, he had never sent Draco anything before, and today was Draco's birthday so...wasn't it probably a birthday present? Draco couldn't help but laugh at the thought. Harry Potter, scion of the Light, sending the evil Slytherin Junior Death Eater a present! Had Potter read somewhere that he ought to send a present to avoid offending the family because he wasn't coming to the party? That was a joke! If Potter had decided to show up in their manor his parents wouldn't have known whether they should kill him or offer him tea.

He ought to just levitate the package over to the fireplace and be done with it. Nothing Potter could have come up with would be at all appropriate. It was probably something horrible and muggle and maybe dangerous and definitely cheap. But, Draco liked gifts. He liked all presents by dint of the fact that they were presents, and he always had. His mother had had to resort to advanced charms work to hide his Yule gifts from him when he was a child. Furthermore, he reasoned, this would probably be the only present he had the chance to open today, as the others would all be set aside until after the party and the ceremony. It was indecent not to open birthday presents on one's actual birthday!

Draco grabbed his dressing gown from where he had thrown it at the foot of the bed, and he used it to cover his hands while he picked up the package. Not terribly heavy, he noted. He shook it forcefully. No sound. Potter had silenced the box. Draco glared at the gift. How unfair! He knew a couple of spells to check for dangerous hexes, but none that were strong enough to justify opening a mysterious package from Potter. His father on the other hand…

Excited to have a mystery gift from Harry Potter of all people, Draco was out of the room in a flash and almost to his parents' chambers before it occurred to him that Lucius and Narcissa would probably not appreciate being woken up in the dead of night to check a box for curses. He hadn't actually gone into their room in at least a couple of years. It wasn't like he had nightmares anymore…at least not the kind that he would go to them for. He debated going back to his room and waiting until morning to ask them, but he was likely to die of curiosity if he did that. Besides, he wasn't actually an adult for nearly twenty-four hours, after the small ceremony had been completed. He was entitled to a last fit of childishness, especially considering all that they expected of him in the coming months.

In keeping with this theory, he didn't knock when he got to the master bedroom. Instead, he burst through the door crying "Mum! Dad! Are you asleep?" With a slight jump, he plunked himself down into the center of their bed before they were even fully awake. Narcissa shrieked in surprise, and Lucius, fumbling for his wand, rolled out of bed and into the floor. Draco laughed at the sight of his usually calm and collected parents in such disarray.

"Draco, have you lost your mind!" Narcissa gasped. "What are you doing? You're not even dressed!"

"All the important portions of my anatomy are covered, Mother," he laughed. "Did I wake you?"

"No of course not," Lucius drawled as he stood up. "We were just in bed in our night things…not sleeping." He cocked an eyebrow at his broadly grinning offspring. "I assume from your chipper demeanor that no one is about to attack us and you are not in any sort of pain or distress?"

"I'm sixteen now," Draco informed him seriously.

"Ah, I see. And you felt the need to let us know this at…" he checked the clock. "1:30 AM?"

"Of course not, Father! Someone sent me a birthday present, and I want you to check it to make sure opening it won't kill me."

"We've let you spend too much time with Severus," Narcissa muttered as she scooted back against her pillows. "You've developed his paranoia."

Lucius, however, looked at the box in his son's lap cautiously. "What makes you think it's cursed?"

"Oh," Draco said casually. "Nothing much. Just that it's from Harry Potter."

Lucius summoned the package away so fast that it looked like it had spontaneously apparated. It floated at eye level a few inches away from him. "Have you gone mad!" he shouted. "You didn't touch it did you?"

"Of course not! I'm not stupid."

Lucius glared at the parcel as though it might contain some particularly virulent strain of Dragon Pox. "I'll take it down to the sub-basement and destroy it," he said decisively. "Or maybe I should get Severus to do it? He's better with cursed objects."

"Umm…Father," said Draco tentatively. "I think you're giving Potter a little too much credit. If it is hexed I doubt it's much worse than boils or bat bogeys. He's not exactly a genius."

"You are taking this entirely too lightly," said Lucius with a frown. "Potter might just be the proxy sender for someone like Dumbledore."

"Well, Dumbledore wouldn't want to curse me," Draco pointed out. "He would have sent the cursed package to you."

"Thank you, darling, that makes us all feel so much better," Narcissa said.

"Please, can you just check it for hexes? I don't want you to blow it up! What if it's something good?"

Lucius rolled his eyes; but thirty minutes, twelve detection charms, and one revealing potion later, he was forced to admit that the package didn't seem to contain anything overtly harmful. "It's got something magical in it," he said. "But it doesn't seem hostile…just strange."

Draco huffed impatiently from where he sat on the small settee in one corner of the bedroom. "It's probably completely ruined with all the spells you've been casting on it. Can I open it now?"

The elder Malfoy passed the faintly-smoking package to his son without further complaint. Draco's curiosity again peaked as he tore off the brown paper and opened the simple cardboard box. A white envelope with his name on the front hid the gift itself from view, so he set it aside. He gasped as he saw what it was. How could Potter have possibly known? There was no way! But it couldn't just be luck…Potter wouldn't have even gone into a shop like that unless he was looking specifically for this item.

"Well, what is it?" Lucius asked in annoyance. Narcissa had gone back to sleep after the first five detection spells had indicated that there was nothing to fear.

Father's going to be irritated, thought Draco as he reached into the box to take out his present. Lucius wouldn't let him have one no matter how many times he had asked, simply because he didn't consider it to be a "respectable" sort of item for a pureblood heir. Indeed, Lucius's face drained of color (a sure sign of anger) and he opened his mouth, but before he could speak his son cut him off.

"I'm not getting rid of it," he said firmly. "I think it'll be dead useful."

He tipped his hand so that the sharp fingernails of the withered human hand he held caught the lamplight. He had always wanted a Hand of Glory.

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When Draco got back to his room, he again slipped the Hand of Glory from its box. It wasn't an attractive present, but it was valuable to anyone who had something to hide. The Hand brought light only to its owner, and it would provide light in almost any darkness, magical or natural. It was not, he thought, the kind of thing one would want to give to an enemy. Surely even Potter was clever enough to know that. With this, he could cast any number of darkness spells and creep up behind Potter, unseen. Was the Gryffindor really that dense?

And how had he known that Draco wanted one anyway? His father had berated him for ten minutes for letting the word get around at Hogwarts that he wanted an illegal dark artifact. But, Draco was quite sure that he had never mentioned anything about the Hand at school. He was cautious about that sort of thing. He couldn't tell his father that though because he doubted Lucius would believe him, and he didn't want him to think that the gift was even more suspicious (and therefore dangerous) than he already thought it was. Maybe Potter knew Legilimency? Draco shuddered. That was a terrifying thought. For the first time he was glad that Aunt Bellatrix was teaching him Occlumency over the summer. The witch was crazy and cruel, but it was better than having Potter or Dumbledore plundering his thoughts.

Sighing, Draco put the Hand on his dresser and covered it with a handkerchief. He liked it, but that didn't mean he wanted to look at it. From the pocket of his robes, he pulled the envelope that had come with the Hand and opened it. He was expecting some sort of hateful diatribe or boasting. What he found when he opened it was in some ways much worse. Written simply on the paper in standard black ink were the words "_Happy Birthday, Malfoy. As for the leaves, they represent what gets me through the day, so maybe you'll find it useful. – Harry Potter._"

Out of the folded parchment, two dried oak leaves had fluttered to the ground. His heart pounding in his chest, Draco bent to pick them up. Potter shouldn't have known. He shouldn't have known about the Hand, and he definitely shouldn't have known to send these leaves along with it. There had been nothing written on the invitations to indicate to the general populous that they should do so. If one of the non-Dark families decided to play at the Wishing for one of their parties they would say so directly in the invitation so everyone would know to bring something. No one, except those who already knew, should have known that the scent on his invitations was anything more than an accent. Potter sending these leaves implied that he felt sure Draco was a Dark wizard, and while many people probably suspected as much, no one, not even twits like Weasley, had ever seriously accused him of it. Being truly Dark was an automatic sentence to the Dementor's Kiss if you were found out. No one would accuse another wizard lightly. Was Potter threatening him?

Maybe, thought Draco hesitantly, maybe Potter didn't realize how serious it was. He was raised by muggles and was sometimes remarkably ignorant about the wizarding world. Honestly, the idiot should have picked up a book sometime! Draco rubbed the oak leaves between his fingers. He should tell his father. He really should, but Potter's gifts and his letter didn't feel like a threat. Lucius was likely to blow it all out of proportion. He had been a little high strung since he got out of Azkaban. What if he decided that it wasn't safe for Draco to go back to Hogwarts? Oak leaves – the traditional symbol for bravery. Not very threatening at all really.

Mind made up, Draco set the leaves down beside the hand and crawled into bed. He was just about to drift off to sleep when a surprising thought woke him up. Harry Potter had given him a rather brilliant birthday gift. Propriety dictated that he return the favor. What on Earth did a Death Eater's son buy for the Boy Who Lived?


	15. The Party

Chapter 15: The Party

"Harry," said the voice on the other end of the phone. "Are you sure you won't tell me where you are?"

Request number fourteen for my whereabouts, Harry Potter thought before he responded. The cell phone Hermione had promised him had arrived a couple of days previously in a large package borne by two post owls. She had included the equipment that was needed to recharge it, but there was no electricity in Knockturn Alley, so Harry had been careful to limit conversation time in order to conserve the battery. When it finally died, he would have to go plug it in the muggle world somewhere. "I'm not going to tell you, Hermione," he said. "Like I've said, I'm in Britain, and I'm safe."

"Alright then," she said. "I hope you know what you're doing. You will let me know if you need anything won't you?"

"Sure," he said. "I'll call you again tomorrow."

He hung up the phone, then stood up from the bed to stretch. His room at the Doxy Closet was looking more and more like home he thought. The wardrobe was now filled with his new clothes from Robin, and the small bookshelf he had transfigured had several texts on it. He had borrowed a couple of wizarding romances from Bette, who had rather grandiose ideas about love for a prostitute, because they often gave insight into how the upper echelons of society functioned. His conjured chair had disappeared after just a day, but according to his book it was common for conjurations to be temporary.

He had conjured up another one, and it had stayed so far. He was working at night on transfiguring it into something more elegant. Already it was mahogany, but he was still trying to make the brocade cushion look manlier. Cora had got wind of the project somehow (she knew almost everything that happened under her roof), and she had promised him free room and board for the remainder of the summer if he could manage some permanent conjurations and transfigurations to upgrade the furniture and fixtures in the Doxy Closet. Harry wasn't sure he was up to that level of spellwork, but he was willing to give it a try. The Ritual of Clarity had proved relatively simple to perform, so he tended to remember things better when he studied now. The only downside was that he had to use the daggers he had purchased to cut runes into his palm every time he did it, and it only lasted for about four hours.

Harry looked with some trepidation toward his wardrobe, which was the only piece of furniture he hadn't tried to improve magically so far. Hanging off the hook on the front of the door was his set of new formal robes. He hadn't been entirely honest when he told Hermione that he was safe. Truthfully, he felt quite unsafe. He couldn't believe that he was actually planning on going to Malfoy Manor in just an hour's time. He must be mad! But, Zate had been very persuasive in his usual taciturn way.

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"You've gone and done it now, boy," the old apothecary moaned as he walked into the shop two nights before. "What were you thinking? Hobnobbing with Lucius Malfoy of all people!"

"What do you mean? We didn't hobnob. We just happened to be in the Library at the same time."

Zate snorted disbelievingly. "It's true!" said Harry.

"Well, you've made quite the impression apparently, Hephaestus. I've been asked to invite you to young Malfoy's birthday party on the 30th."

Harry felt his jaw go slack. He couldn't seem to get out of going to that party no matter what he decided to do! "Well, I'm…err…I'm afraid I'm busy that night."

"Oh no you're not," Zate said firmly. "You should have realized that waving around that last name of yours was bound to cause mischief. Stupid boy."

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He had had to bite back the urge to tell Zate that "waving around" his real last name would have caused much more trouble. The apothecary had gone on to explain that "certain people" were very interested in meeting the heir to the Peverell family for "cultural reasons." Zate kept layering on hints and warnings until Harry thought he would explode from all the tiptoeing around the subject.

"Why don't you just go ahead and say that a load of Dark wizards want to have a look at me and see if I might be one too?" he had asked in exasperation as he stood on a tall ladder to place a jar of blue Lethifold blood on one of the top shelves in the store.

Zate had only raised an eyebrow at him. Harry felt suddenly awkward, as though he had blurted out something just a little too honest. "You said it," the apothecary had responded after a while. "Not me."

"They won't leave me alone will they?" he had asked after a long pause. "I mean, if I don't go."

Zakarias Zate's silence was answer enough. "I'm not buying Malfoy a birthday present," Harry muttered, thinking that he had already prepared one present for his school nemesis. He had thought he had said it quietly, but Zate must have heard because he cackled wheezily as he limped over to open up the shop's door for the first customers of the evening.

"Don't worry, Hephaestus," he'd said. "You're only a guest of a guest. No need for gifts."

"I'm not a Dark wizard, Mr. Zate. Last names aren't everything," Harry had told him firmly as he descended from the ladder.

The apothecary shook his head. "No one said you had to be, boy."

"Right, well… I just wanted to be sure you knew it too."

"Of course," said Zate.

They spent the next few hours working more or less silently. Harry was now trusted enough to run the magical cash register while Zate stumped around the store harassing customers. The old wizard could be very vocal when it came to correcting his clientele, so it was rather like being in a constant potions lesson without any brewing. He would sometimes shout things like, "What do you mean you put Berrible Nectar in a Shrinking Solution, you moron? The only thing Berrible Nectar is good for is making Super-Adhesive Epoxy." Harry hadn't thought that he would like having a job, but he did. It gave him something to do that wasn't studying, and Zate remained a wellspring of information.

When he packed up his bag (he was still using the sock-bag he had transfigured in the Library) to leave for the morning, Zate had been downstairs in the storeroom. "I'm leaving, Mr. Zate," he called.

"Bye then, boy!" came the shout from the cellar.

Harry turned to go, but just as he reached the door, Zate cried out in a conversational tone, "You know, Hephaestus, Light wizards don't usually spend all their free time reading books on Dark defense spells."

Harry paused in the act of reaching out to push the door open. What Zate said was true enough. "Yeah? Well, I didn't say I was a Light wizard either!" he hollered back. "I'm fence-straddling."

Zate appeared in the doorway that led to the storeroom stairs. "Oh is that it? Well, lad, mind you don't fall off of your fence then. No telling where someone of your talents is likely to land."

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Harry thought about all of this as he walked through Knockturn Alley in the direction of Robin's shop. He and the energetic young seamstress were becoming fast friends. They met for breakfast every morning after they both finished work, and Robin had taken it upon herself to become his "appearance advisor." Though it could be annoying sometimes to spend time trying on outfits for her or indulging in her need to try to "fix" his hair (which was no longer so unruly but hung at just the wrong length, so it was always in the way of his vision), Harry didn't mind it. He liked spending time with her, and he would be the first to admit that he had no clue how to make himself look good.

Robin had been ecstatic to hear that Zate was taking him to the Malfoys' ball. "Oh my Merlin!" she had shrieked. "It's, like, the social event of the summer. You have to let me dress you!"

He had agreed to bring his new dress clothes by the shop so that she could approve of how he looked before he met Zate to travel to the party. Within a few minutes, he was standing at the door of Renata's Robes, and before he could even reach the door handle, it burst open, and he was hauled inside by an irate Robin. "HP!" she cried. "I was expecting you an hour ago. How am I going to get you ready in time!"

"I don't have to leave for nearly an hour," he tried to point out as she dragged him back towards her changing room, her dark braids swinging as she hustled.

"An hour he says," she muttered to herself. "You'll completely shame me. You know that, right? You're hopeless."

She began yanking off his everyday robes so violently that he thought she might damage them. "Really I don't think…Hey!" he squawked in shock as she grabbed his shirt and began tugging it up over his head. "I can get naked all by myself, thanks. I really don't need all the assistance."

She glared at him but shoved the dress robes into his arms. "Three minutes," she said. "But that's all you get. After that I'm coming in even if your bum is shining like the newly risen moon for all to see."

Taking her threat seriously, Harry dressed in record time. He hadn't finished by the end of the allotted three minutes. Formal robes were rather complicated. But, he was at least dressed decently enough in the under-robe when Robin came breezing in carrying a variety of items ranging from hair ribbons to scissors. "Now," she said with a gleam in her eyes, "Let's see what we can do with you."

She poked and tugged and charmed. She shoved a vial of some kind of hair growth potion down his throat, and then cut almost all of the resulting extra foot of hair off. She snipped at imaginary stray threads, and at one point she took a pair of tweezers to his left eyebrow. Harry submitted to the treatment as gracefully as he could, though he honestly couldn't see all that much difference when she was done with him. What did it matter, really, if there were three less hairs in one eyebrow?

When all was said and done, he looked very… "Wow," said Robin appreciatively. "I'm good. You could pass for a wealthy pureblood heir."

Harry looked in the mirror. His silver under robes just peeked out from underneath the storm gray over robes, which had black and silver embroidery around the hem and up the back. His hair fell down to his collarbone in a shaggy cut that still managed to look elegant. The front pieces had been pulled back and caught in a small silver clip. His new black dragonhide boots (not traditional, according to Robin, but very stylish) were just visible beneath the long robes. He smiled at his reflection. It was nice to not look like the Dursley's house elf.

"Oh, yes," cried Robin. "Do it just like that?"

"Do what?" asked Harry.

"When you stood just then and smiled! Straighten your shoulders again."

"What do you mean?"

Robin sighed. "You always hunch in on yourself like you're trying to make yourself invisible. When you stand up straight it makes a world of difference. You look like you could go out and do battle or something."

"Well I hope that I don't have to curse anyone at the party," he teased, only half joking.

The young seamstress demanded that he practice walking around her store for the last five minutes of their time together, and Harry found that it was very easy, if a bit uncomfortable, to carry himself properly. He just had to make a conscious effort to slip into the mentality he had when he played Quidditch. He never lacked for confidence then.

"Good luck!" Robin cried as he left the shop. "Remember to tell them that I dressed you if they ask! I could use the business."

Harry waved in reply, and a moment later he was entering the apothecary's shop. Zate was standing next to the floo, tapping his foot impatiently. The old wizard was wearing odd, voluminous robes that looked like they hadn't been worn in years. When Harry approached, he caught a distinct scent of mothballs. "Took you long enough," snapped the apothecary. He looked Harry up and down. "I guess you'll do," he said at last.

In a flash of green flames, the two of them were gone.

DPOV ******** DPOV

Draco Malfoy was tired of smiling. He couldn't believe how many people were here. It seemed that every one of the two hundred guests had decided to show up with a friend or partner in tow, and if not for the careful screening of them all he would have sworn that half of these people hadn't even been invited. His mother must have gotten carried away with the guest list this year. He hitched up his most charming smile yet again in order to greet ancient Mrs. What's-Her-Face and the spotty looking middle aged man she had brought with her as the two of them came through the floo. His mother was greeting everyone who arrived by carriage at the front door, and his father was probably hiding in his study with Severus in an effort to avoid the uncomfortable beginning stages of the party.

He sent What's-Her-Face off to the second ballroom for cocktails and called a house elf to take the gift she had brought and add it to the ever-growing pile in the foyer. The floo flared again, and he mechanically repeated his "welcoming smile." He had expected yet another rich almost-stranger to emerge from the floo, but to his shock the normally predictable flames burst particularly high and a very sooty Zakarias Zate, dressed in robes that had been out of fashion before Draco was born, stumbled out coughing.

"Mr. Zate," said Draco in surprise, "I thought you were bringing…"

The flames shot almost impossibly high, scorching and cracking the molding over the fireplace, and with an ear-throbbing BOOM, a definitely singed Hephaestus Peverell was expelled forcefully from the floo to smack into the marble floor in front of it with a thud and an ominous cracking sound.

"Aguamenti!" Draco shot a jet of water from his wand at the roaring fire that was threatening to escape completely from the grate. For good measure, he also doused the boy on the floor. "Are you alright?" he asked as he bent over the other boy, who was sitting up, a dazed look in his startling blue ice-colored eyes.

Hephaestus brushed his wet hair back from his face with a trembling hand. "Yes, I think so," he said. "My nose really hurts though. Is it bleeding?"

"Yes," Draco said. "You might have broken it. What happened?"

"I don't…"

"What on earth! Draco, are you alright?" Narcissa demanded as she hurried into the room, closely followed by his father and Severus. The sound must have alerted others as well, because several curious witches and wizards were standing at the doorway, looking in at the wreckage.

"I'm fine mother, but something has happened to the floo, and I think Hephaestus has a broken nose."

"Oh, you poor dear!" said Narcissa. "I can fix that I think. Let me see it." She spelled the skirt of her ivory colored robes water-impervious then hurried over to the boy on the floor.

"He's not a 'poor dear,'" choked Zate from where he stood in the corner, trying to brush the soot from his robes. "He's bad luck on legs. Nearly killed the both of us."

Lucius lifted a pale brow elegantly. All traces of Azkaban were gone from his appearance, and he looked every inch the Lord Malfoy. "I hardly think it's fair to blame the boy for a floo malfunction, Zakarias," he said.

"Malfunction," Zate spat. "Why didn't you tell me you were allergic to flooing, boy? Did you want to murder me?"

"I'll refrain from answering that," Hephaestus said testily. "I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings."

Draco had to hold back a laugh at the way the old apothecary's face reddened at his assistant's comments. "Besides," said Hepaestus, "What do you mean 'allergic to flooing'? I didn't even know someone could be allergic to it. I've never blown up a fireplace before."

Narcissa was flitting around, casting drying charms at everything that had been doused. Lucius summoned a couple of house elves and gave them instructions to "escort" the guests back to the ballroom. He watched them go before he answered his young guest's question. "It's not an allergy exactly, young Peverell. Some wizards' magic simply responds very badly to certain types of outside influence. Flooing and portkeys work by "hooking" onto a wizard's magical core briefly, but some individual's magic can respond rather…violently…in those situations."

"It usually only comes out around the time of magical maturity, though," said Narcissa fretfully. "You're nowhere near seventeen!"

"I'll be sixteen in a month," Hephaestus replied. "On July," he hesitated for a moment then finished, "On July 28th."

The adults, except for Zate who seemed to be very interested in cleaning off his robes, all exchanged meaningful glances and Lucius spoke up. "Draco, we'll take care of the floo. Why don't you take Hephaestus to the second floor bath and help him fix his robes?"

Draco was itching to stay downstairs and hear their conversation, but there was no way to refuse, so he beckoned for the shorter boy to follow him as he led the way upstairs.

Once they reached the elegant, marble-tiled bathing room, Draco looked his charge over critically. Hephaestus seemed shaken and uncomfortable, but that was to be expected he supposed. If Draco had just been blown out of a floo and then drenched with water on top of having a broken nose, he wouldn't be looking his best either. He pointed to the painted-silk changing screen in the corner. "You can go back behind there and throw your robes over to me. I'll have a house elf come to take them to be cleaned and pressed."

Hephaestus nodded his thanks and did as he was told. A moment later, a soggy set of robes, pants, and very nice boots were flung out from behind the screen. Draco snapped his fingers for an elf, which appeared to take the messy things away. He could probably have made them look decent enough with just a cleaning and drying spell, but that would be too quick. With any luck the elves would take a while to get the clothes in better-than-perfect condition, and he wouldn't have to go back downstairs to mingle until the dancing actually started. Besides, he was supposed to be extra-nice to the Peverell heir just as a precaution, and it couldn't hurt to have some time alone with the other boy before the other Dark wizards and witches started butting in.

"Here," he said as he held a large terrycloth bathrobe (all the bathing rooms in the manor were stocked with them) around the side of the screen. "Put this on until your clothes are ready."

"Thanks," said Hephaestus as he emerged wearing the robe. "Sorry to put you out like this, but I really haven't ever had this much trouble flooing before."

"Don't worry about it," Draco said dismissively. "I should be thanking you. You just got me out of at least half an hour of playing the polite host."

"Actually, you're still having to be the polite host aren't you? I mean for me."

Draco shrugged. "You seem like an okay bloke. I've only met you once before, but you're already much easier to get along with than most of the well-to-do's that have been showing up all evening."

"Gee thanks," Hephaestus replied. "Happy Birthday, by the way."

Draco laughed. It was nice to have a semi-casual conversation with someone his own age. There was too much jockeying for position in Slytherin House for him to relax usually, and Crabbe and Goyle weren't much good unless he wanted to talk about food. "Come on," he said. "We can wait for the house elves in the solarium. It's better than standing around in a bath room."

HPOV ******** HPOV

Harry thought that the Malfoy Manor solarium was the most beautiful room he had ever seen. It was a cozy, half-circle shaped room with the curved part made up of a wall of glass. This magnificent window looked out onto an exotic private garden that seemed to be filled with mostly tropical plants. Small colored lanterns hung from the boughs of the trees, and the window had been charmed to let in the chirping of the crickets and the burbling of the fountain. Heavy wooden armchairs surrounded a smokeless fire pit set into the stone floor, and he settled himself into one of them gratefully. It was almost worth being embarrassed in front of a roomful of his enemies just to spend time in this room.

"Beautiful isn't it?" said Malfoy from where he sat across from him. Malfoy looked quite sharp in his dark green formal robes, and Harry felt awkward standing around in a bathrobe.

"Yes," he said. "I love it."

"Me too," Malfoy admitted. "It's one of my favorite places in the manor."

"You know you don't have to stay with me, right?" Harry said. "I mean…I don't want to take you away from your party, and I'm sure that I can find my way back when the house elves bring me my clothes."

Malfoy smirked. "I bet you'd get lost. This house is like a maze. I think some of my ancestors were a bit scatter-brained when they designed it. Besides, I refuse to leave until I absolutely have to."

"Why?"

"I'm hiding," Malfoy said conspiratorially. "As soon as I get back every one of the nearly four hundred people out there will want to congratulate me."

Harry smiled. He could understand not wanting to be the center of attention, but he hadn't pinned Malfoy as that type of person. Maybe Malfoy was just looking for an excuse to…hang out with him? No, that couldn't be it.

"You should want to stay here too, you know," Malfoy said suddenly.

"I do," Harry replied without thinking. The other boy quirked his lips up in a half smile. "I mean," he tried to explain, "that I'm not very comfortable around so many people. Parties aren't my kind of thing."

"Really? Well, you should definitely hope that it takes the elves awhile to finish up your robes then."

"What? Why?"

DPOV ******** DPOV

Draco knew he was being reckless, but Hephaestus Peverell didn't seem to be much of a talker; and he was hungry for information. How to do this without definitely incriminating himself and the others?

"Oh, you know," he said casually, "It's just that a lot of people have heard about you being a Peverell, and they're curious about you."

"What is it they want to know?" Hephaestus asked him with a calculating look in his eyes.

"It's not every day that the heir of a previously dead family comes forward," Draco replied.

Hephaestus made a noncommittal sound half way between a snort and a grunt.

"Such an old family too," Draco pressed.

The Peverell heir rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to tell them what they want to know. They shouldn't bother." He stared out of the window in an obvious effort to avoid meeting Draco's eyes.

Draco pondered this statement for a moment. It sounded like Hephaestus at least knew what he was talking about. Zate must not have been very discrete. Could he pursue the question farther? "Does that mean you've already made up your mind about what they want to know? Or are you undecided?"

It was such a long time before Hephaestus spoke that he thought his question would go unanswered, but at last the other boy sighed and said softly, "I don't know yet. I'm thinking about it."

Draco had to use all of his considerable self-control to contain himself from grinning like a maniac. This was good. This was very good. It meant that there was a real chance that Hephaestus was considering going Dark. And Draco was the only person who knew for sure!

"But could you ask them…all the 'curious' people I mean…not to bother me too much about it? Because that's not at all helpful."

"I'll see what I can do."

HPOV ******** HPOV

Somewhere in the back of Hephaestus Peverell's mind, Harry-I-am-the-Beacon-of-the-Light-Potter was having a minor nervous breakdown. He had just told Draco Malfoy that he was considering becoming a Dark wizard, and Malfoy was grinning at him like a maniac. Where was the purported Slytherin mask! He had no right to look so insanely pleased.

Besides, he had just said it to get Malfoy and however many other Dark wizards were here off of his case. Hadn't he? Sure, he was playing around with not-so-"Light" magic every now and then…or all the time really if you counted how often he had been under the influence of the Ritual of Clarity. But he wasn't about to start running around in Death Eater robes for "the cause!" But that wasn't every Dark wizard was it? Zate was alright in an evil old curmudgeon sort of way. Still, he didn't want to be a Dark wizard. Did he? Maybe?

A house elf popped in at that moment with an armful of robes, so he didn't have time to answer his own questions. Draco was soon chivvying him off to the bathing room to get him dressed.

DPOV ****** DPOV

Are you sure I don't still look a bit singed?" Hephaestus asked as they approached the door of the main ballroom.

"No," Draco replied firmly. "You look great." It was true too, he thought. Hephaestus looked fantastic, at least as good as he himself did; but he wasn't about to admit that out loud. Whoever tailored his robes must have been very skilled. The houselves hadn't had any trouble cleaning them. Apparently they were spelled safe against fire and water damage. Where had Hephaestus gotten such nice clothes? Draco had been under the impression that he wouldn't have much in the way of money.

"Where did you get your robes anyway?" he asked. "I haven't seen quite that design before."

The change in the other boy's face was immediate. He grinned happily and looked down at his clothes. "Aren't they fantastic? A friend of mine in Knockturn Alley made them for me. Robin - the new owner of Renata's Robes. She's great. I've had her rework my entire wardrobe."

"Oh," said Draco starting to get a glimmer of an idea. Hephaestus liked this Robin person. "I've heard of Renata's before. Maybe I'll stop by the next time I'm around there. All the girls will be accosting you now I bet. It's so hard to find an original robe designer these days, and Madame Malkin hasn't changed her style in ages."

Very much against his wishes, Draco had to leave Hephaestus behind as he entered the ballroom. Everyone was mingling, but the dancing would start soon; and there was no way his parents would let him escape from dancing with every pureblood girl present. It was his filial duty not to offend potential future brides.

HPOV********HPOV

Harry watched Malfoy go, surprised to find himself feeling disappointed. Malfoy he could deal with. These other people though… the room was brim-full of robed and gowned wizards and witches, all chatting to each other in small groups, leaving empty space only beside the dance floor so that they wouldn't crowd the band of musicians who were obviously getting ready to begin playing. He knew almost no one. Zate was nowhere to be seen, and the only person he recognized other than the Malfoys was Professor Snape, who was watching him with a calculating expression on his face from a nearby corner. Harry shuddered mentally and reminded himself not to meet his Occlumency teacher's eyes. That could be disastrous.

Turning around in search of a familiar person, Harry gasped in shock to find himself face to face with the puggish profile of Pansy Parkinson. She was wearing a tight-bodiced pink ball gown that did nothing to hide her rather unremarkable cleavage. "Hello, Mr. Peverell," she purred. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard ever so much about you. I'm Pansamina Parkinson, but you can call me Pansy." She winked at him. "All of my friends do." She gave him a beaming smile that showed every one of her unnaturally white (Was it some kind of spell?) teeth and held her hand out towards him back-up.

Harry stared at her hand. Did she expect him to kiss it? That wasn't going to happen. He grabbed the hand and shook it hastily before dropping it. "Right," he said. "I'm Hephaestus. Nice to meet you too."

"Yes it is," she agreed. Harry wondered if this was a normal attitude for the girl or if she had had too much of the Champagne that was being passed around by liveried house elves. "I heard about that dreadful floo accident. Imagine! Nearly blowing up a room in Malfoy Manor. People will be talking about it for years."

She took a step closer to him. "I'm really glad you're alright."

Harry could have been reading too much into it, but she seemed to be holding her breath and thrusting her chest out for some reason. Wait…was Pansy Parkinson hitting on him? This was just wrong on so many levels. He had a sudden urge to mock the girl who had often teased Hermione at school, but he repressed it. "I've got to go," he said hastily. "Errr…bathroom."

He began to wend his way through the crowd, eager to leave the affronted Slytherin behind, but he hadn't made it very far before a large hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. "Hey," said Goyle's familiar granite like voice. He looked even more awkward in dress robes than Harry felt in his, and Vincent Crabbe was standing a short ways behind him looking equally awful.

"Hey to you too," said Harry, unable to think of another reply to such a brief greeting.

"I'm Greg," said Goyle, grabbing Harry's hand and shaking it too firmly.

"Hephaestus," said Harry as he tried to hide his wince. Did Goyle know on some subconscious level that if he crushed his hand the Gryffindor quidditch team would be out a seeker?

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Goyle said in his slow voice. Crabbe had become distracted by a house elf with a platter of pasties and had walked off without speaking.

"You too," said Harry, wondering if he could use the bathroom excuse like he had to get away from Pansy. As if thinking about her had summoned her, he saw her pink gown bowling through the crowd as she made a beeline for him. "Great," he muttered as he began looking for the nearest exit. He felt like he was being hunted.

"Are you hiding from Pansy?" Goyle asked him curiously.

"What? No, of course not!" said Harry. When did Goyle become perceptive?

"Really? Because Draco always has that expression on his face when he's hiding from her."

"I bet," said Harry under his breath as Pansy arrived in a burst of bright satin and tulle.

"Hephaestus, dear, we hadn't finished talking," she said in a simpering voice.

"Oh, but I was just…" Harry tried, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Give him a battle with Death Eaters any day. Parties were not for him.

"Hi, Pansy," said Goyle.

"Hey, Greg," she replied without looking at him. "Why don't you go away and get a biscuit or something? Hephaestus and I are getting to know each other."

Harry felt the urge to throw himself at the behemoth and beg him not to leave him alone with Parkinson, but it turned out that he needn't have worried. "Did you talk to Draco, Pansy?" Goyle asked. "He said he was really looking forward to seeing you."

"Really?" Pansy asked in an ecstatic voice. "He said that? Well, I'd better go find him then. The poor boy must be missing me terribly." She smiled at Harry, once again showing off her glimmering teeth. "Don't you go anywhere, Hephaestus darling? I'll be right back."

"Umm…Thanks," said Harry as Parkinson began fighting her way through the crowd towards Draco. He looked at Goyle in confusion. "Won't Draco be mad that you set her on him?"

Goyle shrugged. "We're supposed to be nice to you," he said as though that should explain everything. "Draco was going to have to talk to her eventually anyway, but she'll come back. You'd better head somewhere else if you don't want to see her."

APOV ******** APOV

Fourteen year old Astoria Greengrass loved parties, but she wasn't paying much attention to this one. Her father had set her an assignment for the evening right after word had gotten around the Dark ones in attendance that Hephaestus Peverell had blown up Lucius Malfoy's floo. "Get to know the Peverell, boy," he had said. "He's most likely not a pureblood so don't be too friendly, but he could make us a powerful ally some day."

Daphne was busy smarming up to the eligible pureblood men at Lord Greengrass's instruction, so it was up to Astoria to make an impression on the new maybe-Dark wizard. She knew she was the lucky one. Daphne would have to spend the night dancing with all those boring boys while playing the untouchable goddess. Well, "untouchable goddess" was how Astoria thought of her sister's demeanor around her many suitors anyway. She was her father's pride and joy for that. For some reason, the heir potion hadn't worked for her mother like it had for everyone else. Her father, the ambitious head of a young pureblood family, had needed to have boys; but he had adapted well enough to having daughters. He didn't have much choice but to adjust since his wife couldn't have children after Astoria and Dark wizards didn't get divorced.

The Greengrass sisters had been raised from birth to be a valuable commodity to their family. They were intelligent, pretty, well-mannered, pureblooded, and Dark; and their father expected to make the best possible matches for each of them. Daphne was his heir though, so it wouldn't do for her to neglect her passel of suitors just to get to know the Peverell boy.

Astoria scoured the faces of the guests as she looked for her target. Daphne had seen him earlier at a distance. She'd described him as "short, but okay-looking, with interesting eyes"…which coming from Daphne meant he was probably very attractive. Her sister had ridiculously high standards. She had once said that Draco Malfoy's appearance was "nothing special." Aha! There he was! He was standing beside one of the windows, trying to use his dark robes to blend into the curtains. He really was short for a guy, just a couple of inches taller than Astoria, so he was doing a good job of it. She wasn't worried about getting to know him though. She and Daphne both kept up to date on just about anything that might pop up in a normal light conversation, from the latest politics to romantic scandals to Quidditch scores.

She smoothed out her dress and walked up to him confidently to introduce herself. "Hello, Hephaestus Peverell. I'm Astoria Greengrass."

HPOV ******** HPOV

Harry loved this hiding spot. He had managed to have a brief conversation with Zate, who was still miffed about the floo incident, but after that he had had to put all of his efforts into avoiding Parkinson. She seemed to be distracted with the dancing now, so he felt safer. He watched as a younger girl with honey-colored hair and a lovely face made a beeline for him. He prepared himself to refuse her offer to dance, just as he had everyone else's.

"Hello, Hephaestus Peverell. I'm Astoria Greengrass," she said when she reached him.

"Pleased to meet you."

"Would you like to dance? I like this song, and I don't have a partner."

"I'm sorry," he replied. "But I can't dance."

The girl, unlike the ones before her, seemed unperturbed by this. "Okay then. How are you liking the party?"

"It's fine I guess."

The girl nodded sagely. "Meaning you hate it," she said. "Most guys do. I love parties personally. Dancing too. What do you like to do?"

"I like to play quidditch," he said.

"I love quidditch," she replied. "Did you know that the Montrose Magpies beat the Gargoyles 340 – nil last weekend? I was shocked. I thought for sure that the team would be off their game with the latest potions abuse scandal making its way through the papers."

"I know," said Harry, relieved that this was something he could actually talk about without feeling stupid. "They're talking about taking the team out of the running for the Cup."

"Do you think they will?" Astoria asked.

"I don't know, but I hope so. It's obvious that they're cheating."

"You know what they say though," the girl pointed out. "Liars prosper."

Harry smiled. "Yeah, maybe. You're a Slytherin aren't you?"

Astoria nodded. "Guilty as charged. My sister Daphne and I are both in Slytherin at Hogwarts. House of the brave and cynical."

Harry raised an eyebrow at that. "I've heard that Gryffindor is supposed to be the brave one."

The blonde girl shrugged eloquently, a move that he noted was much more effective for her than for Parkinson. "There's more than one kind of bravery," she said.

DaphPOV ******** DaphPOV

Daphne Greengrass kept glancing surreptitiously over the shoulder of her dance partner to where her little sister was talking to the Peverell boy. It was so unfair! Astoria got to talk to the hot, mysterious guy that everyone was so curious about, and she was stuck dancing with this rich jerk. Aiden Sneed. He smelled like old socks, and he kept trying to look down the front of her gown.

"You look lovely tonight," he said for the third time since they had begun to waltz.

She called up a demure blush, and smiled softly at him. "You flatter me, sir," she said. If father ever suggests that I marry you, she thought. I'll go to my wedding night with poison on hand.

She heard the sound of her sister's laughter. Not carefully faked laughter, but real laughter. She suddenly wished that she hadn't taken the Auditory Enhancement potion before coming. It was great for picking up on conversations, but she didn't need the jealousy that she felt at the thought of Astoria having so much fun without her. Besides, she always wound up with a splitting headache the day after taking the potion.

She focused in on her sister's conversation for a moment as Sneed spun her around. He was a terrible dancer, she noted. "You really went there?" Astoria was saying. "I've always wanted to visit the Library, but Father is the only member of the family with a card. You're making me so jealous!"

No, thought Daphne. You're making me jealous, Tori. Just wait until you're sixteen, and then we'll both be stuck doing this "charming" nonsense.

HPOV ******** HPOV

Harry liked Astoria Greengrass. She was remarkably easy to talk to, and she was very pretty in a non-threatening way. He was sad to see her leave after they had talked for almost an hour, but she had promised to write to him. "After all," she said. "You've got to introduce me to your friend Robin. Daphne and I have been looking everywhere for someone to do our custom robes!"

He thought that the party wouldn't last too much longer. He would get a drink from a passing elf and go back to hiding against his curtain. Just as long as he stayed out of the way, he could probably avoid Snape, Parkinson, and whatever other nasty surprises might be lurking amongst the guests.

SPOV ******** SPOV

After the Party, Spinner's End -

Severus Snape stripped out of his black formal robes with a sense of relief. He hated elaborate social functions of any kind, but with Lucius Malfoy as a friend they were inevitable evils. His godson would have been satisfied with something much less grandiose. He sighed at the thought and looked down at the brand that disfigured his left forearm. Draco had so much potential. But, despite his arguments against it, Lucius would not be swayed, and all of that promise would go to waste once he was marked. It would be soon. Probably before the end of summer.

Yet another person I have failed, he thought. It disturbed him somewhat that the realization carried little grief with it. He had learned to live with his failures long ago.

On a brighter note, Zakarias Zate had brought the Peverell boy just as he had promised, and the child was far more valuable than any of them had imagined. Floo allergies were rare, and only the most powerful wizards had such severe troubles with it that they were unable to floo safely. It had taken Dumbledore years to learn how to exit a floo without tripping all over himself or causing the network to go haywire. Severus wasn't sure, but he suspected that the Dark Lord was completely incapable of flooing. It was hardly a handicap though, all things considered.

Lucius hadn't been upset with the near-destruction of one of his fireplaces of course. As soon as the boys had left, he had smirked knowingly at his friend of many years. "Oh my, Severus," he had said as he surveyed the scorch marks and cracked plaster, "I think I like Peverell already."

Severus knew it was true too. Lucius had always respected power, no matter what form it came packaged in. Suddenly Hephaestus Peverell wasn't just a potential Dark wizard. He was a potentially powerful Dark wizard, and no matter what anyone said to the contrary, magical power was of supreme importance in the wizarding world. Narcissa and the others' had been equally enthusiastic when the nature of the Floo accident became known. In fact, the only one who had not seemed surprised and thrilled by the news had been Zakarias Zate himself. Most of the others put this down to the fact that the old apothecary was rarely pleased by anything, but Snape suspected something else was at the root of it.

Zate was a very intelligent wizard, and he was being cautious not to meet Severus' eyes. Legilimenses made even the Darkest uncomfortable. The apothecary had a secret to hide…something to do with the boy. But Snape wouldn't read his mind. He had made it his practice long ago not to plunder the thoughts of his fellow Dark wizards. He had few enough acquaintances as it was, and he really didn't need to become any more cynical about the nature of the human soul anyway. For now, the secret would have to remain a secret, but he would be watching. He thought back to his brief conversation with his godson after he had witnessed the coming of age ceremony.

When Draco had returned to the party with Hephaestus in tow, he had spread the word that no one was to pester the Peverell heir. Apparently, according to Draco's assessment, he was a bit shy. Draco had confided in his parents and godfather afterwards that he had had a talk with the other boy and had learned that he was still considering his options.

"You know," Draco had said to him after the ceremony. "I really like him, Sev. Hephaestus. He's nice, and there doesn't seem to be any agenda behind it or anything. He's just nice."

"That's not really something to recommend him, Draco," Severus had pointed out.

Draco had shrugged. "I can't really explain it much better than that. It's just a feeling I have about him. We're going to be friends!"

"Draco, you barely even know the boy…and you don't have any friends."

His godson was miffed. "I have people I'm friendly with, Sev. Like Goyle and Greengrass. It's almost the same thing. Hephaestus is going to go Dark, and the two of us will be friends. That's all there is to it."

Draco had hurried away to talk to his mother after that surprisingly optimistic statement. Severus shouldn't have been surprised by the attitude really. Draco was under a lot of pressure, and he was feeling quite alone. He could also be very stubborn when he got hold of an idea. Lucius had spent countless galleons and bribed numerous ministry officials so that he could import a live dragon to the manor for Draco's tenth birthday…all because the Malfoy heir had refused to give up on the idea no matter how many times he had been told it wasn't possible. Draco had been a horrid spoiled brat. Severus was relieved when he had grown out of it over the last couple of years, but that belief that anything should be possible simply because he wanted it to be so seemed to have become ingrained.

Apparently, Draco wanted a friend. Hephaestus Peverell seemed like the most suitable person available. Severus rolled his eyes. He would probably get just what he wanted too. Draco Malfoy always seemed to.


	16. Midsummer

Chapter 16: Midsummer

From Chapter12:

"Due to longstanding prejudice against the Dark community, few countries in the wizarding world allow these holidays to be celebrated in the open, though some are more lenient than others. Britain, for example, is notoriously intolerant. In most such nations, an agreement was reached with the goblin-run banking systems in the late 1100's to allow for traveling Dark wizards who lacked other secure locations to conduct the proper ceremonies in the safety of the banks at no cost to themselves. If you should be in need of such a service, a listing of these banks is provided in the back of the book."

Harry had, of course, flipped immediately to the back of the book. Gringotts branch – London, was listed for about a half-dozen holidays. One of them, a celebration of midsummer, would be coming up in just a few weeks. He read about the holiday, and overall, it seemed very simple. It didn't appear to be at all the kind of thing that the Ministry ought to make a fuss over. It involved a small ritual wherein the wizard joined his internal magic with the ambient magic and swore an oath to protect the sanctity of magic. Harry had to re-read the oath several times before he understood what it was getting at. It included, among other things, the promise never to "cleave to non-magic" and to "guard the secrets of magic from non-magic."

[][][][][][]

The day after Draco Malfoy's birthday party found Harry standing in the shadows under his invisibility cloak outside of Gringotts bank, waiting for it to close to the general public. He had no trouble watching the last straggling shoppers pass by in the growing darkness. Peverell eyes were truly amazing. But each time someone walked by his hiding spot, he held his breath and had to fight with the urge to go back to Knockturn Alley. This was madness, but he had to do it. He had to know how much truth there was in it before he could make any sort of decision. And, he didn't know of any other way to do it.

He had had this thought in the back of his mind ever since he began reading To Be Dark, but he had thought he would have more time to decide on the appropriate course of action. He had misread before…thinking that Midsummer would fall at the end of July, but when he had picked up the book to do his nightly skim of the text, he had spotted the note again. It clearly stated that Midsummer was at the end of June, and no other Dark holidays were celebrated until he returned to Hogwarts. At first, he was put out that he had missed it, then he noticed an additional note at the foot of the page:

Given the danger of having non-Dark wizards know the specific date when they are offering asylum, the banks often choose to offer the service over the course of an entire week. Should it prove too dangerous to seek the shelter of a local bank on the day in question, you will be able to return at a later time.

So Harry had had to make up his mind. Go to Gringotts tonight, a few days after Midsummer, and hope that the bank was still offering asylum, or he could just not do it. He could give up on this whole idea about figuring out the truth about what it meant to be a Dark wizard. It was uncomfortable to find pillars he had thought so stable were actually crumbling, and everyone he cared for would be ashamed if they knew that he was considering things like this. Furthermore, Dumbledore was a Legilimens, and even if Snape might not out Harry for playing around with Dark magic (though Harry couldn't even be sure of that much), then the Headmaster could easily find out on his own. He was afraid.

When the goblins finally shut the doors behind the last exiting customer, Harry waited for a few more minutes. When no one was in sight along his part of the street, he wrapped his cloak tightly about him and hurried up the steps to the door. He hesitated when he reached it. There were no longer any goblin guards keeping watch. Would anyone inside the cavernous bank even hear him if he knocked? Well, he didn't have a better idea. He reached one hand out of his cloak and gave the door several sharp taps.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Harry listened as the sound of his knocking echoed away into the night air. Then a disembodied goblin voice seemed to whisper in Harry's ear, "We are closed. Why do you seek entry into Gringotts?"

"I need a place to complete the Midsummer rituals," Harry said, hoping that this was what one should say in answer to the question.

"Leaving it a bit late, aren't you?" asked the voice without a trace of surprise. Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Good. It wasn't a completely unheard of request. "You may enter," said the voice. "Please follow the guidelight, and do not deviate into other sections of our establishment. You will find a room has been prepared."

"Thank you," said Harry, but he wasn't sure that the voice heard. The door swung open just enough so that he could slip inside, and once he was across the threshold he removed his cloak. The bank was pitch dark, but with his Peverell vision he could make out most of the huge main room. Goblins still scuttled about behind counters and worked at scales, weighing and measuring the days take. Harry had a feeling that the darkness was magical in nature because it was clearly accompanied by a silencing spell. A normal person would have thought they were utterly alone in the dark. A small globe of yellow light appeared in front of him on the floor and nudged gently against his foot. It then rolled a few feet away and waited. Harry, assuming this to be the guidelight, followed it.

It lead him on a labyrinthine route through the bank, past offices and walls of safety deposit vaults and the ritual room he had seen on his earlier visit for the testing of his inheritance. Was that really less than a month ago? Finally, the guidelight stopped in a hallway with only three doors. It rose up into the air, pulsed once, then exploded to fill the hall with a dim light. Harry blinked in surprise at the sudden change, wondering how complex the guidelight's magic must be, and then he pulled his glasses from out of his robe pocket so that he could see in the light. One of the doors was opened, so Harry entered. The room was really little more than a small stone cell with no windows, but it was well stocked with everything he would need to complete his first Dark ceremony.

Harry had read carefully about what he would have to do before coming. Both Basic Rituals and To Be Dark contained instructions, though the ritual book was quick to point out that ceremonies were a highly specialized type of ritual with different goals at the root of them than the average ritual. Harry thought he knew what to do, but he opened up the books and placed them on the floor next to the various things that had been provided just in case. He looked over the items and was relieved to see that he recognized them all.

Harry took off his shoes. This was the first requirement of the Midsummer holiday ceremony. Other, more important ones sometimes called for near nudity. Harry was glad that he didn't see a reason to engage in any of those anytime soon. Next, he slit his right wrist with a spell and let the blood fall into the small glass bowl that had been provided. Another spell sealed the wound after a short while, and he took up a small brush to trace the rune circle on the floor in his blood. Normally, this ceremony would be completed as part of a group, with every member contributing, but since Harry was alone he had to do it all himself. Fortunately, the correct runes were already etched into the stone of the floor, making his task much simpler. He actually recognized some of them from his studies of the runic dictionary.

Before closing the circle, he picked up everything else he would need and brought it inside. Once he painted the last runes he wouldn't be able to leave. Harry didn't feel much as he put the finishing touches on the final rune; a faint tingling in his hand was the only hint that what he was doing utilized magic. So far, he wasn't very impressed, but he was willing to give it a sincere try before making his final judgment. He sat himself cross-legged in the center of the circle next to the blood stained bowl and filled it from the jug of pure water that had been left in the room. As he did so, he thought about how very illegal this sort of blood magic was. It was the sort of thing that got people sent to Azkaban for life, but he didn't see anything wrong with it. Sure, if he was sacrificing someone else for the blood, maybe, but what harm did it do to bleed into a bowl?

The next part was the most difficult. Both books had simply said that the wizard must "connect to his internal magic," making it sound like this was the most obvious, commonplace thing to do in the world. Harry could only assume that it was something Dark wizards learned how to do that had fallen out of practice amongst others. The only way he knew of to connect with his magic was by casting spells, but he wasn't allowed to use his wand after he had finished the bloodletting. He had been trying wandless magic for awhile now without much success, and that was another reason he had almost given up on coming tonight. But Harry had noticed that when he needed his magic to pull through for him, it usually did, so he stared stubbornly at the thin brush and willed it to levitate until, with a wobbly skitter across the floor, it did. He blinked in surprised pleasure at the floating brush, making a mental note to repeat this experiment later, and he continued on with the next part.

Ideally, he would be able to speak the ceremonial oath in Latin or even Celtic, but his Latin lessons with Zate hadn't really progressed far enough that he could do it without messing it up, especially while he focused part of his attention on keeping the brush afloat. So he would speak English and hope for the best. He felt stupid saying the first part alone, as it was meant to be recited by a "teacher" to everyone else, so that newcomers would understand the purpose of the ceremony. Harry was all alone in this endeavor, so he had to teach himself.

He spoke to the empty room, and his words echoed back to him. They explained that Magic imbued almost all life in one way or another, but that there were two ways of accessing it. The first was to take it from only inside, the controllable, contained, personal magic possessed by witches and wizards. The second way was to interact with the magic of the earth and cosmos itself, to draw the wild magic into yourself and plead with it and mold it into spells that could be both beautiful and deadly in their untamed power. But to follow the second way was harder. One had to be able to accept that magic was never really controllable, that it was almost alive in and of itself, and that all the witch or wizard could do was learn to work in harmony with it.

Harry took a moment of silence, as was required, to think about what he had just said. It was the most entrancing, exciting idea about the nature of magic that he had ever heard. To touch the sheer wildness of the raw power that permeated life itself was almost unimaginable.

Feeling both tense and solemn, he began to speak the oath. He promised to never abandon his own internal magic. (Something he couldn't imagine doing anyway.) He swore that he would seek to learn more about the ambient magic that surrounded him, and that he would try to learn to join his magic to that greater power. He also gave his word that he would not cleave to non-magic or reveal the secrets of magic to non-magic, in order to protect the wizarding world and magic itself from being lost.

He had considered all of this, and he thought it was a good idea. It wasn't saying anything against people like Hermione, who was a thumping good witch after all, not a muggle. It was just advocating that the worlds, and wizarding and muggle bloodlines, remain as separate as possible. This was the only reasonable way to go about things in Harry's opinion. Just look at how the Dursleys behaved around magic! What if someone with more brains and power had the same outlook? Muggles far outnumbered wizards after all, and he didn't think the witch burnings of old would hold a candle to the persecution they could face if their world was discovered in the modern age.

By the time Harry finished the oath, he was trembling with suppressed emotion. He wanted this to work . He wanted so badly to understand everything about magic. It was what had saved him from the horror of his life before he turned eleven, and it was the only consistently wonderful thing that had ever happened to him. He had to know.

As a result of his mood, the traditional request at the end of the oath was probably the most heartfelt he had ever made, and it deviated a little from the normal words. "Please," he said. He could definitely feel the magic of the ceremony now. It seemed to breathe within the room like a living thing. "Please help me to understand the true nature of magic. May my magic be joined to all magic, so that we both might be increased. I promise I'll do the best I can with the knowledge."

The water in the bowl caught fire, burning white in its intensity. Harry held his breath as the magic in the room, now grown to a strength unlike anything he had ever felt, coalesced and seemed to squeeze his whole body and soul in its grasp…

[][][][][][]

From a lecture by Severus Snape, commonly given to young Hogwarts students of the Dark persuasion left under his dubious care:

What is it that we seek with our traditions and our ceremonies and our holidays? They have been repeated for time immemorial, but that is hardly a good reason to continue with something. We gain a greater understanding of the world around us certainly, but it is not so much greater than well-learned Light wizards. We have the chance to use a rawer, more essential brand of magic. All of these things connect us to one another. But are they worth the persecution, the dead mothers and fathers and children and lovers? Are they worth hiding forever in the shadows? Are they worth the burden of knowledge that we bear that no others dare to share with us?

I am not always so sure. But I know why we have these things. I know the ultimate goal. We practice our ceremonies and our traditions, because once in a very long while someone has a chance to reach out and touch the fabric of magic itself. Even more rarely, someone has the potential to achieve an incomprehensibly magnificent unity with it. We do not dare to hope that such a thing will happen to one of us, but we live on the wisp of a dream that someday, some Dark wizard will find that true unity that has been lost for so long. And in so doing, they will change everything.

[][][][][][]

Harry Potter should have been a Light wizard, a great one in fact. If the renowned Seeress Cassandra Trelawney had been alive to read the futures, all but one of the several thousand that attached themselves to Harry's life thread led him down that road. Harry would be Light, and regardless of whether he defeated Voldemort or not; the world after him would go on more or less unchanged over the long run. Only one other future. In the end, one was enough.

[][][][][][]

Harry wasn't Harry anymore. He wasn't anybody or anything. He was everyone and everything all at once. His own powerful magic had mixed completely with the ambient magic in the room until there was no ending or beginning to it.

It lasted less than a moment. The magic receded into the usual background hum of the world, and Harry fell limply to floor next to the still burning water. He knew what had happened to him in an intellectual way. He had asked for his magic to be joined to the magic of the universe…and it had happened. In a big way. But he couldn't understand it or even feel it now that it was over. He felt tears flowing freely down his face, but he made no effort to stop crying. It had been exquisite. He knew that much.

After a time, it occurred to him that he should be afraid. Something tremendous had come to pass, and he didn't know what the ramifications might be. The book hadn't said it would be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this at all. Would he look different, feel different, know more? He was still Harry. Just Harry, as he had once told Hagrid. Just Hephaestus too. As the minutes ticked by he fell more and more into his old thoughts. He wondered about Hermione, about hiding his secrets, about how Ron would react if he ever found out that his best mate had gone to Draco Malfoy's birthday party. He chuckled croakily at the last one, but such a mundane thought gave him the grounding in reality he needed to stand up from the floor.

He looked down at himself. He was still the same person, in his shortish, slender Hephaestus Peverell guise. He couldn't remember the end of the ceremony, but he knew what had happened. He felt a little heavier maybe, as though he carried a secret locked deep within him. It was strange. He knew that in a day or two the whole experience would be submerged at the back of his mind, and he hated the thought of losing it in that way, though he imagined it would come back to him when he needed it.

The blood and water had all burned away. The room was just a room. With nothing else to do, Harry packed up his things and opened the door. The guidelight was in its globe form again, pulsing steadily at foot level. He followed it through the bank to the doors, he crossed Diagon Alley in a haze, he walked the still-crowded streets of Knockturn Alley without seeing the people. He went straight to his room at the Doxy Closet and fell into bed.

Well, he thought before falling asleep. I guess I will be a Dark wizard after all. He didn't wake up for two days.


	17. After

Chapter 17 – After

Harry woke to a sharp tugging pain on his face and the strong smell of bergamot. What is that? he wondered as he felt the tug again, and he opened his eyes to the shocking sight of Robin standing over him with her face just inches away from his own. She was wielding a pair of tweezers and humming softly.

"What are you doing?" he mumbled. Why did he feel so tired? His muscles were achy, and he felt like he'd pulled an all-nighter for OWLs.

"Morning, HP!" the seamstress said brightly. "The healer said you'd be waking up today."

"Are you plucking my eyebrows? Have you no concept of personal space? Why are you even… wait… What healer?"

"The one Cora called for you. You've been out of it for two days. I came to check on you when you missed our breakfast date and found you like this," she replied.

She reached in for another pluck, and Harry brushed her hands away with a scowl. His fingers came away from his face covered in some kind of green goo that seemed to be responsible for the herbal smell. Was that face mask? "What's wrong with me?" he asked. He thought he had an inkling, but he needed to know what the healer had told them.

She sniffed and set down the tweezers. "Well aside from the fact that you obviously don't appreciate the hard work I endure to improve your appearance… The healer said it was magical burnout – too much power forced through your body too fast. Have you been doing something you shouldn't have, HP?"

"Probably," he admitted. "But nothing I'm going to tell you about right now.

"Some kind of grateful you are," she teased. "I stood up to you with old Zate and everything. Told him you'd caught the Centaurian Stomach Flu and couldn't come to work."

"Why'd you tell him that?"

She looked at him seriously. "It's not smart to let people know you're playing around with heavy magics, HP. Especially around here. Burnout is kind of rare, and while Zate's probably okay, the fewer people who know the better."

"My magic is okay right?" he asked, feeling a sudden fear.

"Oh, sure," she said dismissively. "You just fried a couple of internal circuits. You should be right as rain by this afternoon."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

"I do my best to keep you grounded.

"You do your best to drive me mad. What is this stuff you've smeared all over my face?"

"Parseck's Pore Perfecter. It's great for your complexion. All the ladies here use it. I borrowed it from that Bette girl."

Harry stared at her. "I don't know what to say to that."

She huffed and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "Say: 'Thank you, Robin, for taking care of me in my hour of need.'"

[][][][][][]

Harry had a pleasant lunch with Robin at The Pub. He was famished, and he ate two huge helpings of the Steak and Stilton pie while he read his mail. Several of the people who he had met at the party had sent him letters. Most of them were just polite "nice to make your acquaintance" missives, but Astoria Greengrass and the Malfoys had sent him lengthier ones.

Dear Hephaestus,

It was so nice to finally meet you. I enjoyed our conversation immensely. You were right about the Magpies. Disqualified from the finals! I can't believe the state of quidditch these days.

My sister Daphne and I were interested to hear about your seamstress friend in Knockturn Alley. I have looked for her store's name in the wizarding business listing, but it's not there. We were hoping to set up an appointment for a consultation sometime in the next few weeks as we are both in need of new robes for the upcoming school year. Could you ask her when she has time available for us?

Sincerely,

Astoria Nadia Greengrass

"Oh my Merlin!" Robin shrieked when Harry read the letter to her. "You told them about my shop?"

"Yes," said Harry in confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"I…well, yes of course, but…" she was bouncing up and down in her seat and wringing her hands. Harry couldn't decide if she was nervous or excited. "I just… Greengrass… aren't they purebloods? Pretty upper class, aren't they?"

"Yes," said Harry. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"It's great! But… What if they don't like me?" Robin moaned. "What if they think I'm a terrible robe maker? I'll be ruined!"

Harry scratched his head. "I could write Astoria back and tell her you died or went on vacation or something."

"Don't you dare!" she cried. "I can do this. They want a consultation. I can do it. Mum used to do consultations once in awhile. And pureblood ladies buy scads of clothes. Even if they're only a minor family, the Greengrass account would be worth a fortune and they might tell their friends…"

"Alright, so I'll write her and tell her you can do it this week."

"NO! Don't do that! They can't see my shop like it is. It looks like a secondhand robe store. It is a secondhand robe store. I'll have to move out half of the inventory and remodel the fitting room and get in new samples and…" She leapt up from her seat. "I'll talk to you later, HP! I've got to get started. I'll write her back and tell her I can do a meeting at the end of this month or sometime in August."

Harry watched in bemusement as she ran out of The Pub. He picked up the letter from Malfoy and started to read:

Hephaestus,

Thank you for coming to the party. It wouldn't have been half as fun without you. Father got the floo fixed up just fine, so don't worry about it.

Now that things have quieted down around here it's quite boring. I need to make another trip to The Library soon. Would you like to meet me there? I could help you find a good apparition manual. You'll need to learn since you're not safe to floo.

If you can make it, meet me at the main entrance at 8 AM on the 6th.

Hoping to see you soon,

Draco

Harry put the letter away. He felt an odd mixture of interest and trepidation at the thought of meeting Malfoy again. He already knew that he would go. He really did need to learn how to apparate, and finding a book on his own amidst the Latin shelving system would be difficult. Malfoy seemed to be making an effort to be nice. As strange as it was to think of, his helpfulness felt like an overture of friendship. And considering all that had happened in the past few days, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

[][][][][][]

That Night…

Harry wended his way in and out of the Wednesday night crowd, clutching his bag to him tightly to ensure that it wouldn't look like an appealing target for thieves. Business was booming tonight, and Zate had run out of several common ingredients almost as soon as the doors had opened. He had sent Harry out with a small purse and a detailed shopping list to track them down. What had felt so strange to him only weeks ago, now seemed more familiar, and he reveled in the heightened sense of excitement that permeated Knockturn Alley on what locals called a "Dark night".

Everyone, from store owners to street vendors to the old hags with their trays of questionable goods, had their most impressive items on display, and spirits were running high. He had already skirted around a couple of minor duels since leaving the apothecary. He had been thankful for his daytime study habits when one of the participants had misfired a nasty-looking orange spell in his direction. He had had his wand in his hand already just to be on the safe side, and without having to pause for thought, he whipped it in front of him and cried, "Specule".

It had been beautiful. The reflective shield had blossomed from the tip of his wand, a gleaming six-foot wide silver circle of light. It was a fairly powerful spell, one that stronger light wizards might have been able to cast, except it wasn't designed to draw upon internal magic like a simple Protego was. Like most Dark spells, it pulled in ambient magic, allowing the caster to hold the spell for longer with more strength. The curse had hit the shield with a faint fizzling sound before bouncing back towards the man who had cast it. Harry hadn't stuck around to see what its effects were. The man's screams were enough to let him know that it was bad.

Despite the unpleasantness of the situation, Harry was thrilled. The reflective shield had worked just as it should have, and having used it successfully once, it would stick with him. He was one spell closer to keeping himself safe from Voldemort and the Death Eaters. More than that though, was how he had felt when he cast it. Gone was the odd heaviness and the sensation of guilt that had come with casting Dark spells previously. It was like taking in a deep lungful of air after having been underwater for too long - natural, comfortable, fulfilling. Something of a communion had accompanied it too…a small thing really, like the copious and varied magics of Knockturn alley had briefly caressed his own in greeting then departed. It had left him feeling more alive.

He brushed past a gray-robed member of the Watch as he turned down Daemon Lane and received only a short nod in acknowledgement. Very different from his first night here. The Doxy Closet rose up out of the cobblestones in its customary wash of pink light a few hundred yards away. Several magenta colored fairies zoomed around in the air above this street. Obviously someone's wares had gotten away from them. He stopped to watch their capering for a moment, then continued walking.

He was following kind of internal pull that lead down the crowded lane. Zate's "shopping list" was only half shopping really. The other half took the form of spells and instructions. Apparently being an apothecary was more of a hands-on job than Harry had suspected. He had already purchased the human fingernails from one of the hags. It had taken a lot of arguing to convince her that he wouldn't accept anything less than whole nails…after all, if Zate had wanted clippings he could have gotten them from anyone. And, he had found the bottle of Giant Squid's Ink at the grocer's of all places. The next item on the list was Essence of Boggart, and it appeared that he wouldn't be able to purchase this. It was one of Zate's specialty items, and the other sellers of potions ingredients hadn't mastered the trick of getting it.

Harry had had to cast a spell that worked like an internal version of the "Point Me" spell for boggarts, and the pull he felt was leading him in the direction of one. Hopefully anyway. He had already walked farther than he had expected to. After a few more minutes, the spell led him behind The Pub. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Well, not out of the ordinary for Knockturn Alley anyway. There were some electric green mice scurrying around amongst the rubbish, and a couple who had the unnaturally white coloring of vampires were snogging at the end of the alley. Then he noticed that one of the trash bins was vibrating. Right. Now for the hard part.

He set the glowing crystal bottle that Zate had given him on the ground between him and the bin, then levitated the lid off. It clanged to the ground loudly. Harry held his breath. Less than a minute had passed when the Dementor emerged. He felt the air go cold around him. His breath fogged in front of him, and the faint sounds of his mother's screaming began to mix with the rattling inhalations of the Dementor. Harry steadied himself, imagining what he wanted to happen, pointed his wand firmly and said, "Riddiculus". The Boggart-dementor was sucked through the mouth of the bottle with a squelching sound until the container looked like it had been stuffed full of black robes. Only part of a scabby hand, smushed against the glass, offered an indication of what form the unfortunate creature had taken. Harry hastily corked the bottle and cast a sealing spell before putting it into his bag. Only a few more items and he could head back to Zate's.

An hour later, his bag was bulging with hard-won prizes, and he was feeling famished. He stopped at a vendor's stand to get some food. Harry loved the street food in Knockturn Alley. Once one got past the fear that it might be poisoned, it was fun to go from stall to stall, picking out the strange delicacies that were on offer. He was in one of the better areas now, on Faerie Way just a few doors down from the Magna, so he wasn't too worried about the safety of the delicious-smelling noodle bowls that the vendor was selling. His mouth watered as he watched the scar-faced cook scoop noodles and curried tentacula into a bowl. The first time he had tried eating venomous tentacula had been purely out of revenge last week when one of the ones Zate kept in the store had managed to nearly strangle him. Feeling vindictive, he had ordered it for dinner at The Pub, and he had been pleasantly surprised that, far from being disgusting or lethal as he thought it would be, properly prepared it was tender and meaty.

Another customer had come up behind him, and as he turned to leave he couldn't help but feel the same slight shock that he had experienced a few times tonight already. There on the stranger's face, just around his left eye and temple, was a striking tattoo. It was a pale silvery blue – a pattern of concentric circles emanating outward from the outside corner of his eye to his hairline and down to his cheek bone. Harry forced himself to look away and walk back the way he had come from. He knew what the tattoo was, though he had never seen one before today. When he had walked into the apothecary and seen Zate's face he had known. Dark wizards were marked with these unique tattoos that apparently could only be seen by others of their kind. That was what he had surmised at least, since he had never been able to see it before he had completed the Midsummer rituals. Zate's was a series of squiggly lines. A woman who had come into the shop earlier had had one too. Hers looked almost featherlike. Harry recalled the green cloaked man who had come to the apothecary on his first night working there. He remembered the odd gesture he and Zate had exchanged, thumbs tracing the then-invisible marks on their faces in acknowledgment.

What Harry didn't understand was why he could now see the marks if he didn't have one himself. Shouldn't he not be able to until he had a mark of his own? It made him feel odd, as though he were spying on something private. He knew that it must have been the ritual, and he wondered if this new sight would fade over time unless he marked himself. Could he mark himself? The idea was thrilling and disconcerting all at once. He would scour his books for information when he got back to his room. For now, he had to get back to the store.

[][][][][][]

Harry was put out. None of his books mentioned anything at all about Dark wizards bearing marks. There wasn't even a passing reference to it! He had stayed up until nearly noon looking for information, but his endeavors hadn't met with any success. After that he had tried calling Hermione on the phone only to find that the cell phone's battery had finally kicked the bucket sometime over the last few days. He had had to go rent a cheap room in a muggle hostel just off of Charring Cross Road so that he could use the outlets to plug in the charging equipment. He had called Hermione's house from a payphone.

"Harry!" she had cried when she heard his voice. "Oh thank goodness you're alright! I've been so worried. Why didn't you call me? I thought you were dead in a gutter, or hit by a lorry, or captured by Death Eaters, or…"

She continued in this vein for some time. Harry was shocked at how many ways she could think of for him to end up in trouble. He was amused to note that none of them included hanging out with the Malfoys and a slew of other Dark wizards or battling Boggarts in the dead of night in Knockturn Alley. "Hermione, seriously, you need to calm down," he said.

"How can I calm down! You promised to call me and then you DIDN'T!" she shrieked. "I thought you were DEAD!"

Harry held the receiver away from his ear. "My phone's battery died," he explained. "I've only just now got the chance to charge it."

She was silent for a moment, and Harry realized his error with a wince before she spoke. "So you're staying in a magical area then?" she asked.

"What makes you say that?" he asked. "I could be camping in the middle of nowhere!"

"Please, Harry. I'm not Ronald…I can hear the street noises in the background. You're in a city."

"Right now, sure. But that doesn't mean I'm living here."

"I don't believe you. You're staying in London."

"Err…"

"Why hasn't the Order found you yet? Ron says they've had Mad-Eye and Shacklebolt combing Diagon Alley for you everyday."

"Well, thanks for warning me in a timely fashion" he said, peeved at this news. Didn't the Order ever give up?

"I didn't think you were moronic enough to hide out somewhere so obvious! I thought you'd be in the muggle world."

"Right, well… Anyway, I'm just calling to let you know I'm okay. I've got to go now; I'm running out of change."

"Harry, if you're not staying in Diagon Alley where are you living?"

"Bye, Mio. I've got to go now."

"Don't you hang up on me Harry Potter! What kind of mess have you gotten yourself…?"

The line went dead and the mechanical voice asked him to insert more money. Harry hung up the receiver with a sigh. She would be onto him soon enough if she wasn't already. Keeping secrets from Hermione was like trying to hide glitter from a niffler. He could only hope that she wouldn't rat him out when she arrived at the conclusion that he was staying in Knockturn Alley. Even if she did, he thought, as he looked at his wavering reflection in the phone booth's glass, he would be fairly safe. Hephaestus Peverell wasn't associated with Harry Potter at all.

[][][][][][]

Harry woke at sunset in the tiny hostel room he had rented. He gathered up his things eagerly, stowing the phone equipment in his bag. He was ready to head back to Knockturn Alley. He felt a little uncomfortable here in the muggle world after having spent so long in the wizarding one. Everything was a little too artificial for his tastes and a little too mundane. He waved a goodbye to the receptionist at the desk and hurried out into the street.

The Knockturn watchmen greeted him amicably when he emerged from the metal door of the alley's back entrance. "Give our love to Maia!" one of them called in a slightly drunken voice, and Harry smiled in acknowledgement. He dropped his things off at the Doxy Closet, tied his hair back into a microshort ponytail (He thought it looked stupid, but it wasn't safe to have his hair loose around the more volatile ingredients.) put on his work robes and headed for the apothecary.

After the rush last night, he and Zate had very few customers. They spent most of their time restocking and cleaning. This was fine by Harry, as it encouraged Zate to be talkative, and he got more lessons on slow nights. The old wizard Dark wizard practiced what he called the "natural method" of language instruction, so he had a tendency to shout out instructions in Latin every few minutes without further explanation. In between working and Latin lessons, Zate continued to given him advice on how to behave in polite society. "You'll have to learn to dance," he said at one point.

"What? Why! You didn't dance at the Malfoy's party."

The apothecary snorted. "I've earned the right to be antisocial by the fact that I'm old, ugly, and curmudgeonly. You're young, handsome enough, and interesting so you've got no excuse."

"Errr…How do you plan to teach me to dance?" he asked with a feeling of trepidation.

"I'm not going to teach you boy! Do I look like I want to move this bum leg around while I waltz with your scrawny self? Find someone else to teach you. It's something you need to know."

A couple hours after this disturbing conversation, Zate let him off for the rest of the night. "No sense in hanging around. Everyone who had shopping to do did it last night or will come tomorrow."

Harry spent the rest of the evening with Robin, who was still in a state of hyperanxiety about the distant arrival of the Greengrass sisters. "They're coming on the second of August," she cried as soon as he entered the robe store. "I'll never be ready in time!"

He told her that that was ridiculous, but when he saw her frenetic remodeling methods he thought it might be true. She spent a half hour alternating the color of the fitting room curtain between royal blue and forest green before she finally decided that curtains were outdated and she would have to get a screen of some kind. At 7:30 in the morning, when he left her, she was on her hands and knees at the floo, berating a salesclerk at Finchley's Furniture for sending her a screen that "felt" cheap.

Harry chuckled to himself as he shut the door of the shop. He grabbed a pastry from a passing baker and ate it for breakfast. Then, after brushing the crumbs off of his robes, he clenched his fist tightly and said "bibliotheca." When he opened his eyes, he was standing by a tinkling fountain in an exotic garden. Just a few yards away, standing on the marble steps of The Library and waving at him with a smile on his face, was Draco Malfoy.


	18. Draco's History Lesson

Chapter 18: Draco's History Lesson

DPOV

Draco Malfoy was in a pleasant mood. With the pressures he was facing these days, that in itself was surprising enough, but even more amazing to him was that this really un-Dracoish good humor was the result of a person he hadn't even heard of until a couple of weeks ago. It was nearly noon, and he and Hephaestus had finished their search for books about an hour ago. Now they sat at a small wrought iron table in the back of one of the Library's reading gardens, pouring over the books they had found and comparing notes.

For once, Draco was glad that he had never learned to apparate before, or he wouldn't have had a good excuse to stay with the Peverell boy. His father had planned on teaching him this summer, but Lucius was spending almost every moment of his spare time at the Ministry, cozying up to various different officials. He had used up a lot of favors from people in high places in order to secure his release from Azkaban, and he needed to reestablish his position among the political set.

Hephaestus hadn't wanted to stay and study at all. He was usually asleep by this time of day, but Draco had pulled every trick he knew to get the other young wizard to join him for an apparition study session in the garden. It had been surprisingly difficult. Hephaestus seemed a bit leery of his company for some reason, though Draco couldn't really imagine why. The other boy got along just fine with Zate (who was kind of scary in Draco's opinion), so it couldn't be that he was afraid of Dark wizards.

He had finally succeeded in gaining Hephaestus's consent by saying that he thought he really needed the help to learn the material because he needed to know how to apparate before school resumed. This was absurd of course. He was a powerful, Hogwarts-trained pureblood. The chances that his learning speed would be increased by the presence of the other boy, who had never even attended school, were slim. Still, the small blow to his pride had been worth it. Hephaestus Peverell was interesting.

Draco had been studying his behavior all morning, trying to figure out what made him so frustratingly intriguing, and he had learned several things about his companion. As he had noticed at the party, the Peverell heir was an unassuming young man. He had a certain way of carrying himself (shoulders drawn in, head hunched, eyes lowered) that encouraged people to ignore him. In fact, Draco had made the assumption at the party that he was shy and maybe not terribly clever. This was hardly a deterrent, as Malfoys tended to like keeping the spotlight on themselves at any rate. But, as he had learned today, Hephaestus wasn't shy. When he was paying attention, he was confident and open. He smiled freely and greeted Draco with a hearty handshake when they met. He was even a fairly animated conversationalist, but from time to time, when he was distracted with looking up books or reading, his posture reverted to that of someone trying very hard not to be noticed.

Hephaestus also had quite a temper. One offhanded comment about Mudbloods, and the other boy was instantly snappy and offended. Draco had had to make an undignified dash after him to stop him from leaving, and then he'd had to apologize! Peverell had reminded him that he was not a pureblood, that he thought that kind of prejudice was "shite," and that he couldn't abide the M-word at all.

After that, Hephaestus had remained cold for awhile, but he'd eventually softened up and started acting as though the incident had never happened. He was rather nice, actually. He seemed curious about Draco's family and his home, even though Hephaestus never mentioned much about his own family. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable with the fact that Lucius was a Death Eater. Unlike most people, Peverell didn't seem willing to accept the Daily Prophet's story that Lord Malfoy had been proven innocent. When Draco had mentioned how grateful he was that the Ministry had finally "realized they were holding an upstanding citizen prisoner," Hephaestus had merely raised his eyebrow and said: "Whatever. Let's not talk about your father, alright?"

After that, they had had an in-depth discussion about Quidditch tactics. This had pleased Draco immensely, since he rarely had the opportunity to discuss Quidditch with anyone. His parents only attended games because it made him happy and gave his father the chance to socialize with well-to-do's. At school, the Slytherin team followed a "bigger-is-better" philosophy when it came to playing, so overall there was a lot more brawn than brains. Marcus Flint, the captain, had even been held back for an eighth year...which was practically unheard of at Hogwarts! Honestly, if he didn't like the sport so much he wouldn't even bother. As it was, he spent more time telling the beaters who to attack (cheating helped even the odds against the other houses in his opinion) than he did looking for the snitch.

Hephaestus obviously loved the game, and he knew what he was talking about when it came to tactics (meaning he usually agreed with Draco). It would have been perfect if he actually played, but when Draco asked he shook his head. "No, I'm just an enthusiast. I don't play."

Their conversation had stagnated while Draco thought, and he was just about to make some comment to start it up again when Peverell sighed.

HPOV ******** HPOV

After the Quidditch conversation, Malfoy seemed to become lost in thought. Harry watched him discreetly from across the table. The morning hadn't been so bad. Other than Malfoy's one attempt to talk about his father and his slip with the word "mudblood," it almost seemed like he had spent the past few hours with a clever and interesting acquaintance. Harry had come to the grudging conclusion that his long-time school nemesis actually did have a few redeeming qualities. The other wizard was smart, knew almost as much about Quidditch and brooms as Harry did, and he wasn't always mean. In fact, he seemed to be going out of his way not to be offensive. Harry had always loathed his sarcasm and dry sense of humor at school, but without the years of built-up tension between them, most of Draco's witty comments were rather funny.

If Harry had had any doubt that his schoolmate was a Dark wizard through and through, the gleaming silver-blue mark at his left temple would have clarified it. Draco's was rather intricate. A lacy wing-like shape about three inches long graced the side of his face, and though Harry would never have admitted it out loud, it looked almost stylish against Malfoy's pale skin. He had tried several times to come up with a discreet way to ask Malfoy about Dark wizards' marks, but he couldn't work out a way to do it. Would the other boy flip out if he was asked directly about being a Dark wizard? Or would he pretend not to know anything?

Perhaps he should ask Zate instead, but he didn't want to do that. Harry wanted to figure things out for himself before he put a mark on his own face and announced his presence as a Dark wizard (and how strange it felt to think of himself in that way!), and Zate was beginning to know him too well. Asking would tip the old apothecary off, and he would want more answers. Maybe the blunt approach would be alright with Malfoy though...he did seem eager to please didn't he?

Harry marked his place in the apparition manual he was reading. It was a very boring in-depth analysis of the "deliberation" part of the process. Malfoy was looking down at his own book, but only a moment ago he had been staring across the table with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Leaning back in the chair and stretching his arms above his head for show, Harry sighed to get his companion's attention. Malfoy smirked. "Tired of it?" he asked.

"It's dull reading," he replied honestly. "I'm more into practical application really. What's the worst that could happen if I just called it quits with the book and gave it a shot?"

The blonde raised an eyebrow. "Well, you could be fatally splinched...or lost in the fabric of space-time for an eternity. Probably you'd just look stupid spinning around without going anywhere though."

Harry snorted. "Those all sound more interesting than this," he gestured at the book. "Can I ask you a question, Draco?"

"Sure, but I reserve the right to refuse to answer."

"Okay. I don't want to offend you or anything though. It's kind of personal."

Malfoy's eyebrow shot up even farther. "I don't think we're quite to the personal-question stage of our relationship, do you? But now you'll have to ask or I'll die of curiosity."

Harry took a deep breath. He figured he'd better start with a general question, then work his way to the real query. That might loosen Malfoy up. He knew that the Library's privacy spells would protect both parties in this conversation, but just for good measure he threw up a silencing charm around their table. "Will you tell me about being a Dark wizard?" he asked.

Draco's face was instantly mask-like and impenetrable. Harry couldn't tell if he was just freaked out or if he was mortally offended. Malfoy turned his face back to his book and stared at the pages for a long while. "Oh," he said eventually in a neutral voice. "That."

"If it bothers you to talk about it..."

"I imagine that there are tons of books inside if you're curious. Why don't you go check some out."

"I have."

"Well then, there you go. Go read them."

"I have. They don't tell me what I want to know."

Malfoy was silent again. "I don't mind telling you. Not really," he said after a moment. "It's safe enough to talk about it here, but you have to understand, Hephaestus, this is not exactly a seemly conversation."

Harry had a feeling that remaining quiet was the best course of action. The other boy seemed to be working himself up to responding. "I'm the right person to ask of course," Draco said. "I mean, everyone knows that some Malfoys were Dark a few centuries back, so naturally I would know my family history well enough to..."

The snort that escaped him was completely unintentional. Malfoy glared at him. "What's so funny?"

"Well, it's just that..." Harry shrugged. "It's not the world's biggest secret that your family is Dark. People are always banging on about what your father's up to, even in Knockturn Alley. And I hang around Zate almost every night, so I'm obviously not going to be too upset no matter what you say."

Malfoy stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "Who's been saying my family's Dark? Who was it?"

The air was fairly crackling with magic. Harry made pacifying gestures with his hands. "Whoa! Calm down, Draco. I didn't mean for you to take it like that. If you don't chill you'll get booted out of the Library by the anti-hostility wards."

"How else am I supposed to take it! You just go and accuse my family of... You said!...What else could you have?..." he sputtered.

Harry stared. He hadn't expected anything as strong as this reaction. What was Malfoy's problem? "Are you okay?" he asked. "I didn't think you'd flip your lid."

This made Draco pause. "You didn't think I'd what?" he asked in a perplexed voice.

"Flip you lid? Freak out. Lose your head. Go 'round the twist."

Malfoy cocked his head to the side and his eyes widened. He blinked a few times. "Muggles," he said.

"I'm a wizard actually," Harry replied, feeling certain now that the blonde was having some kind of meltdown. "You know, I wave this stick of mine around, and it shoots out colorful lights and sparks."

"No," said Draco, still looking flustered. "You were raised by muggles. You said so, the first day we met."

"Right," Harry said warily.

"So when you said lots of people knew my family was Dark, you just thought you were saying..." he hesitated. "You know there's a difference don't you?"

"In what?"

"In being truly Dark as opposed to just using some of the spells that the Ministry classifies as dark magic."

Harry wondered where this conversation was going. "Yes. I know that it's different. I told you I'd been reading. Dark wizards practice rituals and ceremonies to connect their personal magic to Magic itself. They swear oaths and that kind of thing. Other people just pop off "dark" hexes once in awhile. Even light wizards can use…the Unforgivables for example…if they put enough emotion behind it to act as a temporary bridge between personal magic and external magic. There's also a lot of variance in the level of power that Dark wizards can put into Dark spells depending on the strength of the connection, so some Dark wizards can't actually cast the really powerful Dark spells while others can. And, there are loads of spells that only true Dark wizards can cast, though they've almost all fallen out of use."

Draco sighed. His hands were trembling a bit from his earlier anger as he tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "Yes, yes. That's all true, but there's so much more to it than that. That's the textbook definition of Dark versus non-Dark I guess, but it doesn't encompass all of the social issues that surround it."

"When you said people knew my family was Dark," Malfoy continued, "you were wrong. Sure, kids at Hogwarts or frightened old witches out doing their shopping might take a look at the Daily Prophet and say 'Those Malfoys - Dark wankers the lot of them!', but they don't mean it in the same way you do, Hephaestus."

Harry frowned. "How do they mean it then?"

"It's all blurred now - the vocabulary. They're saying they think we're bad people, or they're referring to a few minor convictions my father's actually had for owning some suspicious artifacts. Or even my father being a Death Eater, which you seem so certain of... They're not sure we're really Dark wizards. Do you understand what I mean?"

Harry nodded slowly. He was thinking of Ron, who was quick to say that all Slytherins were "Dark wankers."

"Real Dark wizards are anathema in the minds of the Light. They can tolerate the petty scum who muck about with nasty hexes in Knockturn Alley, and even some minor Death Eaters from the last war got off with Azkaban sentences of only a few years. But being convicted as a true Dark wizard is an instant death sentence."

Harry shivered in spite of himself. He had never seen Malfoy looking so dead serious. "What else?" he asked when the other boy fell silent.

And as though the request had opened some kind of floodgate, Malfoy started to talk. He spoke of spells that had been worked in the past of such strength that they shook the Earth to its foundations. Once, before they had hidden themselves, Dark wizards had worked together in huge numbers, and they had spun hurricanes out of clear skies, caused volcanoes to erupt from flat land, and spread plagues amongst their enemies. And once, before they had hidden themselves, Dark wizards had brought rain during times of drought, called up hills to save villages from flooding, and worked healing spells of such power that they could bring the recently dead back to life.

But things had changed. Merlin and his followers gained control. And people began to fear the power that came from communing with Magic. Mankind, they said, should leave behind the old ways. Wizards no longer had to work together or acknowledge the greater powers. They had small internal magic of their own that they could use. The ambient power was too great, and it wasn't evenly distributed. Some wizards were much stronger than others under the old ways, and internal magic didn't vary as much. It became evil and twisted for witches and wizards to connect to the ambient magic. The ones who could not give up their unity with Magic had to flee. They met in secret in distant places, and they worked smaller spells together with less power than they had had before when there were many of them. They came together at night, so they were called the Children of the Dark - the first Dark wizards. Within the space of a generation, they became hated.

Time passed, and the division between Dark and Light grew wider and wider. The Light began to abstain from anything that could be even remotely associated with the old ways, and the Dark sought new ways of making up for their loss of numbers. The practice of sacrifice was the example Draco used. Sacrifice had always been a core component of most magical rituals before the split. "Blood for rituals, using live animals in potions, emotion-based magic, sex magic, certain nearly-sentient plants, even things like whole fingernails, or that Essence of Boggart that old Zate keeps in stock – they're all based on the idea of sacrifice," he explained. Sacrifices made magic potent, fueled it with life energy, but Light wizards stopped using it. They believed it was cruel and abominable to take life from something in order to give it to something else.

"The closest thing Light wizards have to sacrificial magic is actually the Mandrake Restorative Draught," Draco said. "How they get off thinking that mandrakes don't count as sacrifices I have no idea. They actually have sex and make baby mandrakes together before they're deemed mature enough to be chopped up for the potion. That's creepy even by my standards."

Dark wizards, on the other hand, had embraced the idea of sacrifice. It was included in nearly every great spell or ritual, and traditional Dark potionery utilized tons of sacrificial ingredients. "It's really at the root of everything that separates out the two groups I think," Draco admitted. "It gets complicated, but when it comes down to it, true Dark magic takes sacrifice; and Light wizards try to refuse it."

"What about human sacrifice?" Harry interrupted tentatively. He didn't want Malfoy to stop talking. He was enthralled to be hearing these stories, which Draco had likely learned as a small child. But he had to know just how far it went.

"Some really sick people, not necessarily Dark, have used that throughout history. But in terms of Dark wizards…yes, there are stories."

Harry waited, and Draco went on. Once, more than a hundred years after the split between Light and Dark, a wizarding village had been struck by a malediction that led to the death of every child in the space of just a few days. A small community of Dark wizards, just a few families, had lived in the village; and when the children died they went to their grieving neighbors and revealed themselves. They knew of a way to bring the children back. "Three healthy adults per child," said Draco. "That's the price they paid. The Dark wizards and the others in the village thought it was worth it to give their children back their lives." Every animal in the village died as well, and the fields surrounding it were blighted by the magic; but most of the children were saved. Days later, when travelers from a neighboring township arrived, they found a town populated only by children and the elderly people who had been too infirm to participate in the sacrifice. "The children were fine," said Draco. "At least most of them were according to the story. They were running about in the streets and playing when the other wizards found them. But…"

"What?" Harry asked.

"But they killed them anyway. The Light wizards. When they found out what had happened, they killed the children," he closed his eyes. "It was a lesson. They knew that if they let them live, then others would hear about it. They feared that Light wizards would turn back to the Dark in order to save their own young if they learned that it was possible."

After that, Draco talked at length of the Auror purges that had swept through Britain eighty years previously. Whole families taken in just a few nights. The public execution of nearly one hundred people, some of them as young as ten…gathered in a large field and given to Dementors, their soulless bodies burned in a giant bonfire. "It's actually a Ministry holiday," he murmured. "The anniversary of that day. They don't call it that of course. They say it's just a randomly selected labor day, but since it was instituted the year after the mass execution that's unbelievable. Hardly anyone even remembers, it seems. But you can look it up if you want. It's all in the Ministry archives. They called it the most successful auror campaign in history."

They sat together in silence for a long while after that. Harry couldn't even begin to think of anything to say. His original question seemed unimportant in light of everything Draco had revealed. He rubbed his finger idly against the gold embossed lettering on the front of the apparition manual. Why had he never learned how deep the rift between Dark and Light ran while he was at Hogwarts? Did Hermione know this kind of thing? He doubted it. He'd been reading books that she would never have had access too, and he hadn't fully understood it until now. Did Ron know? The Weasleys would be more aware of wizarding history.

A sudden sneeze distracted him from his musings. Draco pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his robes and wiped at his nose. "Pardon me," he said. "I'm mildly allergic to honeysuckle, and I think there's some growing along that arbor over there."

"That's okay," Harry told him. "It broke the awkward silence."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You mean you weren't enjoying the morose atmosphere? Really, Hephaestus, I tell you thrilling tales of death and mayhem, and you just don't appreciate them at all!" He tried to set the handkerchief down on top of the book in front of him, but before it made contact with the cover the book vanished with a sharp pop. "Oh, bollocks! I forgot about that. They're spelled to go back to their shelves if they're in danger of being damaged. I guess dirty handkerchiefs count as dangerous."

"Clever magic," Harry noted. "But, really, I… thank you for telling me all of that. I needed to hear it. And I would rather have learned it from you than from books."

He might have been imagining it, but he thought that Draco actually turned a little red at the implied compliment. "It wasn't any trouble. Did my semi-rant answer your questions?"

Harry tried very hard not to grimace, but from the amused look on Malfoy's face he thought he hadn't managed it very well. "I guess it answered some questions I didn't even know I had. But actually, I was fishing for specific information. I decided to start out with a broad question to ease you into the subject," he admitted.

Draco's grin broadened. "Good work!" he snickered. "I felt really 'eased' during that whole conversation."

"Oh, shut up," Harry muttered as he felt his face heating up despite his best efforts.

"No really, Hephaestus," the Malfoy heir said with mock sincerity. "You did a top-notch job of not upsetting me. Sure, I was on the verge of casting a spell that would rip your spine through your nose, but what's a little dismemberment between friends?"

Draco wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of one eye, then asked, "So what was your real question, oh Master of Subtlety? We'll just pretend like your original scheme worked."

Even though the teasing was gentle, Harry was beginning to remember why he sometimes hated Draco Malfoy. "Fine, I'll just out with it," he huffed. "Over the past couple of days I have run across the fact that Dark wizards have marks of some kind on their faces that apparently can only be seen by other Dark wizards. Other than that, I don't know anything about it, but I was curious and hoped you would explain it to me."

"That's it?" Malfoy asked, he sounded confused.

"Yes. What were you expecting?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Something a little more cliché I guess. 'Is it true that Dark wizards go out under full moons to bathe in the blood of virgins?' or 'How many muggles have you killed?' would be more the standard."

"Nope. I'm not interested in those."

"You're weird," the blonde complained. "How do you even know about Dark marks anyway?"

"Dark Marks?" Harry asked with a sense of dread.

"Yes, that's what they're called," he said. "There's no relation to the Death Eater symbol. You-Know-Who just adopted the idea and twisted it to suit his purposes."

"That's good to know. To answer your question, I've been paying attention to Zate and some of the people who come into the shop. Over the last couple of days I've started to notice things." Harry was pleased that he was telling the truth without giving away the real story. Hopefully Malfoy would jump to the wrong conclusions.

"You must be pretty observant if you drew all of that knowledge from just seeing Zate Greet someone," Draco said disbelievingly.

"Yep," said Harry. "That's me. Subtle and observant."

Malfoy rolled his eyes again. "Wait here," he said. "I'll be back in just a few minutes. I've got to go get something from home to explain this better."

Malfoy clenched his fist around his Library portkey and disappeared. Harry waited with a growing sense of dread. What if the "something" was Lucius? That would be a sour end to an otherwise satisfactory day. The last thing he wanted, ever, was to ask Lucius Malfoy questions about being a Dark wizard.

Fortunately, Draco returned with a huge blue cloth-bound book in his arms a few minutes later, and there was no Lucius in sight. "Okay, just one thing before I show you," he said as he placed the book carefully on the table. "You have to swear that you'll never ever tell anyone that I let you see this. There are only four copies in existence, and they're definitely not supposed to be viewed by just anyone."

"I swear," he said with a smile.

"Close your eyes while I find the right page," said Draco. Harry obliged. "Alright, now you can look."

Harry gasped. There on the two pages before him, were portraits. More portraits than should have fit on the pages by any stretch of the imagination. Dozens of witches and wizards, all connected in various ways by little squiggly lines between their portraits, stared up at him from the book. Almost all of them had the same strange icey blue eyes that he did, and the name Peverell was inked in calligraphy at the top of the page.

"It's your family tree!" Draco said enthusiastically. "All Dark families are listed in The Book of Souls, and their pictures appear in it after their deaths. And do you see their faces? They've all got Dark marks."

This was true. In every portrait that Harry could see, the Peverells were sporting the gleaming blue tattoos that he had seen on the faces of various Dark wizards. The Peverell marks were almost all of a symbol that he recognized as the mark made by the intersection of three circles.

"They're just a way to recognize each other," said Draco. "The marks I mean. They can only be seen by other Dark wizards who have successfully completed their first major Oath to the Dark. There was this auror named Alastor Moody who tried to come up with a way to see them for ages. He had special help from the Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries to create a magical eye that would supposedly see through anything, but no matter how much they tweaked it they couldn't get it to work."

"Are they tattoos or do they just appear?" Harry asked.

"Usually after a Dark child has finished their first Oath and ritual, at whatever age they're old enough to understand it, one of their parents will mark them. It's not really a tattoo so much as it's an external expression of magic. The appropriate design is carved into the skin with a knife, and the witch or wizard's intention creates the mark."

"That sounds painful," Harry noted.

"Oh, it's not bad. You don't have to cut deep at all, just enough to draw blood. They're an important part of Dark culture, though. It's the first thing every Dark witch and wizard does to announce their presence to others. The marks you see in the portraits are all blue because that's how they're painted, but they can change color."

"Why would they do that?"

"It shows if you've betrayed the Dark or Magic. They turn black if that's the case, and no, I'm not going to tell you what counts as a betrayal. It's obvious to Dark wizards."

Harry didn't need clarification. He had sworn an Oath himself after all, so he had a pretty good idea.

"Thank you," he said, noting to himself as he did so that today he must have set some sort of record for gratitude to Draco Malfoy. He looked back down at the book in his hands with a growing sense of wonder.

"So these are my family?" Harry murmured. He touched the page of the book reverently. "These are the Peverells." He felt odd. Somehow looking at these pictures of long-dead ancestors felt almost the same as looking at pictures of his parents.

Malfoy nodded. "Yes," he said. "That's pretty much all of them I think. There were some offshoot cousins that didn't make the book probably."

"I don't know why I feel this way," said Harry. "I mean...I never met them. They all died long ago."

Malfoy pushed a blond lock of hair behind his ear. He frowned. "Why shouldn't you feel something for them? They're your family."

"But I never knew, it's not like I've lost..." His voice failed him, and he traced his fingers again over the ice-eyed portraits on the page.

The Slytherin pulled the Book of Souls gently from his hands and shut it. "I don't know about you, but it's usually different for Dark wizards. Families are more connected between generations. Some of our ancestors leave imprints of themselves behind. In the magic. We can feel it."

"Oh." Harry smiled as he thought of something. "I'm pretty sure you just admitted to being a Dark wizard, you know, about ten times in the past hour or so."

Draco flushed and clutched the book to his chest. "Well," he said in a tense voice. "It's not as if you didn't know, Hephaestus. Besides, the Library's spells..."

"I'm just teasing you, Draco," he said. "And I did already know."

"Right," gray eyes searched his face. "What do you think of it?" he asked.

Harry wondered for a moment why Malfoy would care what he thought, but then he realized that the other boy had almost certainly never had the experience of revealing his nature to someone outside of the Dark community. (Of course, Harry was actually a Dark wizard himself…or at least just one tattoo shy of being one, but Draco didn't know that.)

"I think it's good," he said. "I think it's brilliant."

Malfoy did a very poor job of concealing his pleasure at this news, but Harry decided not to comment on the silly grin that had spread across his face. "You really are the strangest person I've ever met, Hephaestus Peverell."

"You've no idea," Harry muttered under his breath. Malfoy didn't know the half of it, he thought. If he ever realized that he had revealed himself as a Dark wizard to Harry Potter he would probably have an aneurysm.

"So," said Harry, as they began collecting their books to leave. "Can you meet me back here tomorrow morning? I want to show you something."

"Okay," Draco replied. "Can you do it at 10? I've got something to do before that."

"That's fine."

"See you then," said the blonde, and Harry saw him clench his fist in preparation to leave.

"Wait a minute!"

"What?"

"Do you bathe in the blood of virgins under the full moon?"

Draco smirked. "Oh sure," he said in an offhanded voice. "But only on leap years." With a whispered word and a sharp snap, he disappeared.


	19. The Marking

Chapter 19: The Marking

The Granger Home...

Hermione was helping her mother prepare supper in the kitchen when the phone rang. "I'll get it!" she cried. Throwing down the carrot she had been peeling, she dashed into the den to grab the phone. Behind her, she heard her mother laughing at her haste. Her parents thought her eagerness to speak to Harry every day was amusing.

"Hello, Granger residence, this is Hermione speaking," she said a little breathlessly. She crossed her fingers, hoping that it wasn't a friend of her parents or a telemarketer.

"Hey, Hermione. How are you?"

"Harry! I thought you'd forget to call today. It's so much later than usual."

"Yeah, I was busy this morning."

Hermione resisted the urge to ask what had kept him busy. Harry didn't like to be smacked with questions this early in the conversation. He was much more likely to answer if she waited until later.

"I've figured out where you're staying," she said instead. She was careful not to speak too loudly so as not to gain her parents' attention. "At least I think so, but Harry, I can't believe you would do that! It's so dangerous. Aren't you worried about...the neighbors?"

She heard his heavy sigh. "I knew you'd guess. Have you told the Order yet?"

She thought of the note she had written last night that would tell Professor Dumbledore where she suspected Harry was living. The letter was still in her room, unsent. She had had a lengthy argument with herself, and she had eventually decided to stick to her earlier resolve to trust her best friend's judgment.

"I'm not going to tell them," she said. "Not unless you don't call me for a couple of days in a row okay? Because if I don't hear from you, I'll have to assume the worst right?"

"That's... really reasonable of you actually. Thanks, Mio!"

"You're welcome of course, Harry. Just take care of yourself and remember to call me."

"Will do. How are things going with your parents? Are they still driving you nuts?"

She smiled. Harry was always so conscientious about referring back to their previous conversations. It was something she missed in letters from Ron. He almost always talked about himself or Harry. "No, it's okay. I'm helping Mum cook supper. It's still a little weird to be spending so much time with them, but I'm enjoying myself; and it's making them happy."

"That's good." She thought she heard tension in his voice.

"You're sure you're safe? Are you well disguised? Because I imagine that loads of people around there can see through glamours. How are you hiding yourself?" She couldn't help it! The questions just wouldn't leave her head.

"You have got to stop worrying so much. I'm well hidden. No one will know it's me even if they can see through glamours."

"You're killing me Harry! The curiosity is suffocating."

"It's good for your nerves. Listen, do you have time to talk right now or do you need to go back and help your mum? I want to...well... I need some advice sort of, but it's going to be a long conversation."

Hermione's held back a squeal of excitement. He actually wanted her advice for once, and he thought she might rather help her mother chop vegetables?

"Hang on a second, Harry." She went to the door and shut it, then she walked back to the sofa and sat down. "Alright, let me hear it," she said.

"You know that prophecy that smashed in the Department of Mysteries?"

"How could I forget?" Even though Pomfrey had gotten rid of the scarring from Dolohov's curse, she still found herself short of breath from time to time.

"Well, I know what it said."

She was holding her breath, and her palms felt sweaty against the receiver. When he told her, it was worse than she expected. Neither can live while the other survives.

"Oh, Harry! That's... that's, wow. Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah, but now you know why I finally couldn't put up with the Dursleys anymore don't you? I had to get out of there. I've got to figure things out."

"Of course I understand. All the expectations! You must be completely overwhelmed. I'm overwhelmed and I'm not even..." she broke off, not knowing what to call him.

"The Chosen One," his voice was bitter. "It wasn't exactly cheerful news if you know what I mean."

"The Headmaster told you all of this right after Sirius died? That's..."

"Crappy," Harry finished for her.

"Well, yes," she admitted.

"Right, so now that you know about the prophecy and what I...what I have to do... I want you to keep it in mind while I ask you something okay?"

"That's not all!" she exclaimed. "I mean, you don't want advice about being the subject of a prophecy that says you have to kill the most evil wizard of all time?"

"Not exactly. I just want you to have context to think about my next question in."

Hermione wanted to tell him that he would have to give her at least a week to wrap her head around everything before she would be of any use as an advisor. "Context" he said! Her best friend had to take out You-Know-Who, and it was just "context!" "Tell me the rest of it then," she said as she rubbed a shaking hand against her forehead.

"I want to do something that will make my life a lot harder. I've already done it actually, but I want to...keep doing it I guess. It makes everything so much more dangerous for me, Hermione. A lot of people will hate me for it if they ever find out, but I don't think I can not make this choice."

The bushy-haired witch pondered this for a long time. What on Earth could Harry be talking about? Something that he wanted to do even though it would make his life even more complicated, something that would make people hate him? She couldn't think of anything that would fit that description.

"Harry, I want to help, but I haven't got a clue what you're talking about. You're going to have to be a bit clearer."

"That's the problem. I can't really tell you more. I might never be able to. But...I've learned so much this summer. I've found a...something... that just feels right. Living without it would be a lie."

Hermione closed her eyes. "We're not talking about something easy or normal are we?" She sighed. "This is something huge? Something life-changing?"

"Exactly," he sounded relieved, but Hermione had no idea why. She was still confused.

"Is it something that you think you can't do because you're the Chosen One?"

"Among other things. It's something that everybody would think I shouldn't do because of that. It will put me at risk from more than just the Death Eaters," he replied.

She felt her breath catch in her throat. "Harry," she said softly. "Are you thinking of running away? From Britain I mean. From the war."

There was a pause. "No," he said in a surprised tone. "I never even considered it."

"Oh." For a moment, she had been sure she would lose him. "I think," she hesitated. This was such an un-Gryffindorish thing to say. "If you had wanted to, I wouldn't blame you. I would have covered for you."

Another pause. "Thank you. But that's not it. I'm not going to just abandon everyone to Voldemort."

They were both quiet then. "Will it make you happy?" Hermione asked eventually. "Whatever this dangerous, life-altering decision is - will it make you happy?"

"Maybe. I think it could. It will be fulfilling in a way that I don't think anything else can be now."

"Is it worth the extra difficulty? Your life is so hard already, Harry."

"Yes. It's worth it to me."

"Will it keep you from satisfying the prophecy?" she asked.

She could almost hear the frown in his voice. "I don't think so, but it might."

She nodded thoughtfully before she remembered he couldn't see her. She felt oddly disassociated from her environment. "Is that acceptable to you? That it might screw up the prophecy, I mean?"

There was another long silence. "Yes," he said.

"It sounds like you already know what to do," she said finally. "I can't add anything without knowing more."

"I can't tell you more." She had known he would say that. His next words were so quiet that she almost didn't hear them. "What if you and Ron hate me because of it?"

She opened her mouth to tell him that would never happen. But what if it could? Was Harry planning to do something really awful? "I guess you just have to weigh your choices. Could you live without our friendship as long as you had this other thing in your life? That's what you've got to ask yourself."

"I can see that," he said. "Thank you Hermione. I'm sorry to hit you with all the heavy questions today."

"It's no problem. I'm glad to know what's on your mind. Besides, if we didn't have these kinds of conversations we wouldn't be us."

"I'll think of something fun to talk about tomorrow." He laughed. "Just forget about nasty topics like prophecies and the war and my identity crisis."

"Don't hang up yet!" she cried. "You have to tell me one thing."

"What?" he asked.

"Is it worth it? Are you going to do whatever it is even if it means me and Ron hating you? Is it that important?" She clutched at the phone so hard that her fingers were pressed white from lack of blood.

"It is," he said. "I'm sorry."

Her grip relaxed, but she found herself wiping tears from her eyes. This was so stupid! She didn't even know what they were talking about, but apparently it meant enough to Harry that he would leave her behind for it.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I promise not to hate you."

[][][][][][]

When he got off the phone with Hermione, Harry was mentally and emotionally drained. It was late afternoon, and he would have to leave for work in just a couple more hours. He set an alarm spell to wake him up then collapsed onto his bed. His last thought before he fell asleep was that Hermione Granger just might be someone he could trust to understand his decisions, even if she didn't agree with them.

Work that night was more frustrating than usual. A steady stream of customers came in and out of the apothecary all evening, but Harry was so tired he could barely keep up with the cash register.

"What's the matter with you, Hephaestus?" Zate barked after he caught his assistant yawning for the tenth or eleventh time.

"I didn't get much sleep."

An hour later, the apothecary slapped a short list of instructions down on the counter in front of him. "Follow those and drink up! I'm getting exhausted just watching you."

Harry stared down at the potion recipe in his hand. "You're joking right? I've told you I'm useless at potions."

"Bah," said Zate. "You've restocked the shelves down in the basement often enough to know what all these ingredients do. Use your head, boy! And if that doesn't work use Corgood's Encyclopedia."

So Harry soon found himself in the closet-like room that Zate used for brewing. The apothecary only sold very basic potions, cough remedies and Pepperup mostly. The majority of the business came from the ingredients. Harry had gone around the store, collecting the various ingredients that made up the recipe, and now that he had them he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. He glared at the mini-cauldron in front of him for a while, then rolled up his leaves with a sigh and began.

He had never spent this much time on a potion before (unless one counted his negligible assistance with the Polyjuice in second year), but after working with Zate, he understood the value of knowing how the different components interacted with each other. He paid close attention to how he prepared all of the ingredients, constantly referring to his books for clarification. Three hours after Zate had sent him away, he was blinking in no small surprise at the happily burbling potion in front of him. It was the perfect shade of mint green, and it gave off a faint smell of cloves.

Despite the fact that the old apothecary hadn't written the title on top of the recipe, Harry had figured out what it was from the books during the course of preparing it. Everclear Elixir. It was illegal to brew without a prescription because it required a few drops of Re'em blood, a Ministry-controlled substance. It was also a popular drug sold on the black market. Apparently it was addictive if used too frequently. Harry measured out a teaspoon of the cooling potion for himself. "Hey, Mr. Zate!" he called.

"What, boy? Aren't you through yet!" the shout came back. Harry thought he heard a customer complaining about the lack of professionalism.

"I'm about to try it. I just wanted to let you know in case I keel over or something!"

"Stop bothering me and drink your potion!"

Harry swallowed the elixir. It was thick going down, but it didn't taste too unpleasant. He imagined that if he had ever tried to consume the potpourri that his aunt had liked to keep in the guest room it would have tasted about like this. He understood almost immediately why someone might overuse Everclear. It was brilliant! He felt like he'd had a huge dose of caffeine without the jittery side effects. Suddenly, he wasn't tired at all physically or mentally. And the books said it would last for up to fifteen hours before he experienced a "severe crash." Harry wasn't looking forward to that, but he was willing to take the bad with the good.

He imagined how effectively he could have studied for his OWL's if he'd only known the Ritual of Clarity and the recipe for Everclear Elixir at the end of last year. The two combined would be fantastic for short-term use. Harry bottled the rest of the potion and labeled it before heading back to the register.

[][][][][][]

He got back to the Doxy Closet at six in the morning. Normally he would have worked for at least another hour, but Zate had let him off early again. This time his excuse was that Harry's "ridiculous hyperactivity" was grating on his nerves. He was glad enough for the reprieve. He still had work to do before he met with Malfoy later in the morning.

He ate breakfast with the girls. Bette and Maia teased him incessantly about his lengthening hair, and Cora gushed over the tables he had been working on transfiguring for her. They had been made of carved mahogany instead of plain oak for the past week, and his spellwork showed no signs of deterioration yet. He left when they started making sly comments about that "lovely young thing" who had "nursed him back to health" a few days ago.

In his room, he spent several minutes staring at his cell phone and thinking about his conversation with Hermione. He had already made up his mind to go ahead with the Marking, but he felt he owed it to himself to reconsider all the possible ramifications.

If the mark couldn't be hidden from other Dark wizards, then would he be able to attend Hogwarts? He had no intention of revealing that Hephaestus Peverell and Harry Potter were one and the same. He liked the freedom that came from being more or less anonymous, and he would completely lose that if his identity were known. He closed his eyes and thought of himself - Harry Potter, the Gryffindor son of Lily and James, Albus Dumbledore's Golden Boy, Ron and Hermione's best friend. It was harder than he remembered it being. He had been in his Hephaestus guise for so long that the transition felt sticky, like he was trying to work his mind through tar in order to get it to the right place. When he opened his eyes again and looked in the mirror, emerald green stared back at him under a mop of shaggy hair. He pushed up his too-long bangs to reveal the famous lightning bolt scar.

Which face should he mark? Would it show no matter if he was Harry or Hephaestus? They were the same people after all. He felt more at home as Hephaestus these days, but he had never lost hold of who he was. A large part of him would always be green-eyed, scar-headed Harry Potter. He was definitely okay with that.

Harry huffed in frustration. Oh well. He wouldn't be a Gryffindor if he didn't sometimes take leaps of faith. He would give himself the Peverell Dark Mark, as Hephaestus obviously, and if it showed through on Harry Potter's face he would figure out what to do at that point.

He went to the bathroom, shifted personas again, pulled his hair back out of his way, grabbed a small vial of sanitizing agent he had bought from Zate before leaving the apothecary, and set to work. He smeared the sanitizer all over the left side of his face and the blade of his silver ritual knife. The last thing he needed was an ugly infected wound in a funny shape. He hoped he had understood Malfoy's explanation well enough. He had never said that a parent had to do the marking, and Harry didn't want to share something that felt this intimate with any of the candidates he knew of.

Draco had said that the intention behind the magic did most of the work for this. Harry didn't know if that intention had to be directly stated or not, but he figured since he was working alone it was better to be safe than sorry. "My intention," he said aloud, "is to mark myself with the traditional Dark Mark of the Peverell family. I don't have a parent to do it for me, so I'm doing it myself. This mark will be a visible symbol of my permanent allegiance to the preservation of the old ways and Dark magic."

Harry thought he felt a little of the atmospheric heaviness that he was coming to associate with ambient magic, but he couldn't be sure. He put the tip of the knife to his temple and pressed gently. With the first drops of blood, he felt the magic in the room coalesce around him. He had the sudden impression that he couldn't have moved the knife away from his face if he wanted to. He began to trace the pattern into his skin that he had seen on the portraits in The Book of Souls. He was relieved when the magic in the room seemed to do most of the work for him. His hand didn't shake, and it moved with a surety that he himself didn't feel.

Slowly but surely, the mark took shape. The symbol that was made by the intersection of three circles, like a three-petaled flower, appeared etched in blood. Draco had been right. It didn't hurt all that much, but it bled like crazy. Harry wondered if it was just because it was a face wound or if the magic had something to do with it. As he connected the last line, the knife fell from his hand to clatter on the floor.

He stared at his bloody face in the mirror. A gentle glow had settled around the mark. It felt cool against his burning skin. As he watched, between one breath and the next, the glow faded and his face stopped hurting. Feeling as though he was watching himself in a dream, he turned on the faucet and gathered some water in his palm. He leaned over the sink and carefully washed away most of the blood.

When he looked back up, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. There, in a burning pale blue, was the mark. It was completely healed over as though he had carved it into his face weeks ago. He brought his hand up to touch it. It was cooler than the rest of his skin, and it seemed to pulse slightly under his questing fingers as though it had a life of its own. He thought about what Draco had said about the marks of those who betrayed the Dark. His mind recoiled at the thought of this living expression of his magic blackening and dying.

As he had seen Zate do on his first night at work, he pressed the back of his thumb to his upper temple and drew it down in a gesture that encompassed the mark. He watched himself in the mirror. The motion looked right.


	20. Of Dark Wizards and Weasleys

Chapter 20: Of Dark Wizards and Weasleys

Draco Malfoy stared at the priceless painting of a pair of Abraxans in flight that hung over the mantle in his father's study and tried to tune out the argument that was going on around him. It was ten o'clock. Hephaestus was expecting him at the Library, and his parents and godfather didn't seem to be any closer to a decision than they had been an hour ago when everything started to fall apart.

Honestly. If he had known that their reaction would be this bad, then he would never have told them about the conversation he had had with the Peverell heir yesterday. Not that he had told them exactly. He couldn't because of the Library's privacy spells. Over breakfast, his mother had merely asked what he had spoken of, so he had given her a much-edited version of the things he himself had said.

On reflection, this had been a bad idea. Without being able to repeat anything Hephaestus had said, it sounded a lot like he had just decided to give an almost complete stranger a crash course in Dark history, a confirmation of his father's status as an active Death Eater, and an acknowledgement of his family as truly Dark. Worst of all, when his father, gray-faced and furious, had asked him about Peverell's reaction Draco couldn't respond because of the privacy spells.

"I'm going back aren't I?" he had managed to say.

Unfortunately his parents had taken this in completely the wrong way. He'd meant for them to get the idea that he was going back to meet with Peverell on friendly terms, but they'd determined that he meant to go back to do damage control. And the more he tried to explain, the more the privacy charms tightened around him and the less he could say. He was frustrated.

Severus had arrived at 9:30 as expected to give Draco the final potion that would help out with settling his magic after the coming of age ceremony, and his godfather had been promptly roped into the whole awful misunderstanding. Severus was now bemoaning his idiocy too, which was completely unfair in Draco's opinion. Really. Had he ever done anything to suggest he was indiscreet about being Dark?

By half past 10, Draco was seriously considering just leaving for the Library without permission. But he'd never been openly rebellious to his parents before…well, there had been that thing with the imported dragon when he was seven...but he didn't usually do things that were expressly against the rules. The Malfoy family was definitely patriarchal. Most Dark families were. Lucius had said "You're not to see Peverell again," and though Draco had every intention of going to see Hephaestus he didn't feel comfortable openly contravening a direct order.

He decided to give speaking another go. His throat had nearly closed up when he frantically tried to explain that Hephaestus was fine with them all being Dark, so he approached it cautiously. "Father?"

They ignored him. Lucius and Severus were trying to decide whether it was necessary to have Zate bring his assistant to the manor for obliviation. That wouldn't do. Draco didn't want to be overconfident, but he felt that he was well on his way to convincing the Peverell heir that being Dark was okay; he didn't need the overzealous legilimens to go scrambling up Hephaestus' perceptions.

"Father!" he shouted.

They all turned to stare at him. He opened his mouth cautiously. "You're overreacting." When no asphyxiation occurred he continued. "You are unaware of certain realities of the situation." There. Let them chew on that for a moment. It was bloody hard trying to come up with something to say safely.

Lucius seemed to be trying to compose himself without much success. "Could you clarify that for me, Draco? Or do you just expect me to ignore the fact that you have jeopardized the safety of not only this family but the entire community with your thoughtlessness?" he spat out.

Draco was just itching to put some blame on Zate for this. He knew from talking to Hephaestus that the old apothecary had been playing fast and loose with some information that was definitely supposed to be kept secret before he had even met the Peverell heir. Draco had just… contributed. "Maybe," he said, quite snappy himself now, "you should trust me not to be doing something completely stupid. Maybe you should let me go to the Library now, so that I can meet Hephaestus, who I like, even after yesterday."

His father narrowed his cold gray eyes. "What do you…"

"Oh, for pity's sake, Lucius!" his mother scolded. "Do you want him to be strangled by the spells?"

Severus was staring at him so hard that Draco wondered if he was trying to pick information out of his mind despite the futility of it. "You may as well let him go, Lucius," he said finally. "He can't come to any harm in the Library, and even if you assume the worst, he can't do any harm by revealing more to Peverell at this point either."

They argued for awhile longer, but finally it was decided that Hephaestus wouldn't be obliviated immediately. Lucius had insisted that he go with Draco to the Library, which Draco just knew was a bad idea. The Peverell boy didn't like his father at all as far as he could tell, and Lucius' presence was bound to make things hideously awkward.

As it transpired, he needn't have worried. They didn't make it to the Library until nearly 11 o'clock, and Hephaestus wasn't there. Draco was disappointed, but he couldn't blame Peverell for not hanging around for an hour. Lucius, on the other hand, thought the whole situation was suspicious. He fully intended to travel to Knockturn Alley that night and confront the boy.

Draco had no intention of letting his father threaten and possibly modify the memories of someone whom he was starting to consider as a friend. He'd have to warn Hephaestus at the very least. With that in mind, he waited until his father had left for the Ministry on business, then he headed for Knockturn Alley.

[][][][][][]

Harry was in an odd mood as he exited Gringotts at noon. Malfoy hadn't shown up at the Library, and as hard as he tried not to feel disappointed (because it was ridiculous for his longtime nemesis to be the cause), he was very put out by it. The goblins had also given him some trouble. The ritual room he had used for his midsummer observances was…different…since he'd used it, and they wanted to charge him a fee to return it to its original state.

He'd been to Gringotts to inspect the damage, and had been shocked to discover upon entering it that the room seemed to have decided to revert to nature. Shoots of grass were breaking through cracks in the floor and large flowering vines were beginning to creep up the walls. He'd halfheartedly suggested to the angry bank employee who was in charge of maintaining the rooms that this might be considered in a positive light. "Mr. Peverell," the goblin had replied testily, "We are in the business of renting out ritual rooms, not terrariums." He'd finally agreed to pay the fee.

On the other hand, he was still on a high from the Everclear Elixir. He was dreading the crash that would inevitably come, but he couldn't help enjoying the feeling of clarity and alertness. He'd thought about trying to sleep it off, but the idea was laughable. He felt like he could fly without a broom. And, to top it all off, Harry was finding that life looked a little different as a Dark wizard. Diagon Alley felt empty.

He was terribly disturbed by this feeling at first. He couldn't place what was wrong. Always before in daytime, Diagon Alley had felt alive, even rowdy. Now, everything seemed shallow and flat. He could feel the magic around him. It was strong, but it wasn't deep. He eventually decided that it reminded him of Percy Weasley. All pomp and show but not enough substance to back it up.

Knockturn Alley, in contrast, was almost overwhelmingly vibrant. The magic was strange, beautiful, and feral. Harry loved it; it made him feel alive. But, at the same time, he could understand why not many would prefer it. The magics in Knockturn were lovely but deadly. They were poison and honey inextricably bound.

Harry was just passing the Magical Menagerie on his way back toward Knockturn when he ran into two people he had definitely never expected to encounter together over the summer. Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley were standing by a Daily Prophet stand outside the store, and it was clear from their body language that a fight was about to break out.

The two were so caught up in throwing insults at each other that they didn't see him approach. "Shut the hell up, Malfoy!" Ron bellowed. He reached in his pocket for his wand.

Malfoy smirked coldly. He didn't pull his wand, but Harry would have bet galleons that he could get a spell off before Ron could. "Go on, Weasel. I'd love to watch you vomit slugs. Or do you think you could manage something more creative this time? Puffskeins maybe?"

Ron's ears and neck were dark red. He looked toward the window. Harry followed his gaze. Mrs. Weasley was inside talking to the store clerk. Surely Ron wasn't actually going to hex Malfoy in the street with his mother just feet away?

Draco seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. "Still can't think of anything to cast? Well it's no wonder Potter decided not to take you with him when he ran away. At least he can usually manage a first year hex or two. What do you do with your wand, Weasel? Use it as a backscratcher?"

"Harry didn't run away!" Ron shouted. "And as for first year hexes…what does that say about your father? He got his arse handed to him at the Department of Mysteries a few weeks ago!"

Malfoy made a big show of examining his cuticles. "Hmm…yes. That little incident. It was such a relief when the Ministry realized they had wrongfully imprisoned an upstanding citizen."

Ron's wand was trembling in his hand. Malfoy appeared to be bored with the proceedings, but Harry could tell by the faint tightening of his jaw that he was alert. Harry looked at the newspaper stand. There he was on the front cover. "The Chosen One Missing: Has Harry Potter Abandoned Us?" Apparently the Order hadn't had much luck keeping his disappearance quiet.

He felt oddly conflicted. On one hand, he was furious with Malfoy. Here was the boy he had hated for the past five years at Hogwarts in all his cruel snobbish glory. Harry was just itching to pull his wand out and hex the blond. On the other hand, he was embarrassed for Ron. Didn't Ron realize that Malfoy was playing him? Any minute someone, probably Mrs. Weasley, would walk by to see Ron with his wand pointed at an apparently unthreatening wizard.

Malfoy couldn't resist the chance to needle Ron some more. "Did Potter even tell you he was running off like the coward he is? Or did he decide you were too much of a liability to be informed?"

Ron was about to erupt. Harry wanted to punch both of them. Malfoy for being such a bastard and Ron for being so blind to taunts that were clearly idiotic. Harry's heart warmed at the knowledge that Ron defended him even when he wasn't around, but surely he knew that even Malfoy wasn't so self-deluded as to think Harry was a coward.

Mrs. Weasley was turning back toward the door. Harry stepped in to diffuse the situation before she could see. "Draco," he said. "You didn't show up this morning."

Ron dropped his wand at the appearance of a third party, and Malfoy's superior demeanor shifted into a genuine smile. "Hephaestus!" he said. "I'm so sorry. I was just coming to find you when I got sidetracked."

"Yeah, I noticed," Harry said a little more bitterly than he meant to. How could Malfoy be a normal, likeable human being sometimes and a complete jerk others? "Hi, I'm Hephaestus," he said to Ron.

Ron looked like he wanted to hex him on principle. Harry could see the cogs turning in his friend's mind. Surely someone who was on speaking terms with Malfoy was the wrong sort? In the end, Ron pocketed the wand and nodded grudgingly but refused to shake hands. He stalked into the store to join his mother.

It felt weird to leave a steaming Ron behind to walk off towards Knockturn with Malfoy, but Harry did it. He wasn't at all in a charitable mood, but Draco didn't seem to catch his feeling. They talked about casual, everyday things, but Malfoy seemed almost giddy with excitement. It wasn't until they stepped into the quiet main street of Knockturn Alley that Harry remembered the original reason he had wanted to see Malfoy today.

As soon as they were out of sight of Diagon Alley's shoppers, Malfoy turned to Harry, beaming and exclaimed, "Hephaestus! Why didn't you tell me you were planning this? This is wonderful! It changes everything! I'm so…so…Wow!"

Harry was so annoyed with the other boy that it took him a moment to figure out what Malfoy was going on about. He reached up and touched a hand to his marked temple. He smiled in spite of himself. He was proud of the mark. He couldn't help but be so. And now that he wasn't fuming quite so much he took note of Malfoy's own wing-like mark again. He felt a deep-seated flash of recognition, of welcome, and (he almost gasped at it) family. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter knew on the most basic, instinctual level that he was not alone.

Malfoy seemed to be about to burst with joy. "No one else outside of one of the families has taken a mark in years," he said. "The last was Sev. I guess you're technically part of an old family but still…Have you shown anyone else yet?"

"No," said Harry, beginning to feel grudgingly amused by the blonde's enthusiasm. "You're the first."

"Really!" Malfoy was obviously delighted. "We have to tell everyone!"

"What? Right now?"

"Yes, right now!" Draco looked at him like he was mad. "You've no idea how exciting this is! Everyone's going to be thrilled. And I know first!" He paused. "I mean, that's not the most important thing or anything, but you told me first!"

He rambled on while he dragged Harry down the street towards the apothecary. Then he stopped. "Oh, bother," he said.

"What?"

"I guess you'd probably better come home with me instead of going to tell Zate. Father's decided he has to obliviate you."


	21. Malfoys in London

Chapter 21: Malfoys in London

In all his years at Hogwarts, Harry had never before managed to make Malfoy as uncomfortable as he now appeared to be. The two of them were squeezed together on blue padded train seats in the Underground. A large man with a head cold was standing almost belly-to-nose with the pureblood heir, and every time he coughed or sneezed Malfoy seemed to be trying to vanish into the seat. Draco Malfoy was taking his first ever Tube ride and wearing muggle clothing for the first time, and it was clear that he was hating every minute of it. In fact, observing the tension of Malfoy's jaw and the increasingly wild look in his eyes, Harry wondered whether the other boy might not snap and start shooting curses at the coughing man. After the events of the morning, he felt a mixture of sympathy and vindictive pleasure at having caused Malfoy so much discomfort. He did still owe him for tormenting Ron, and for working his father, the Death Eater, up into such a state that he was planning to obliviate him.

Really, thought Harry, there were much easier ways to travel now that he'd had the time to consider it, but at the time suggesting that they take the train had seemed like a good plan.

[][][][][][]

The two of them had made it halfway to the Leaky Cauldron before Malfoy had jerked to a stop in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"Oh," he had said, looking suddenly put-out. "I forgot…"

"What?" Harry asked. "Do you need some broom polish or something?"

Draco frowned. "No. I just forgot that you can't floo, Hephaestus. I flooed to the Cauldron. How are we going to get to the manor?"

Harry couldn't help but feel relieved. He was glad enough to have this helpful and enthusiastic Malfoy around, but he could do without a trip to Malfoy manor. "I guess we'll just have to go see Zate after all, then. Or you could go ahead and find your father and let him know…errrr…well, tell him there's no need to go messing around in my head."

But, Draco wouldn't be put off. He seemed to have latched on to the idea of presenting the newly Dark Peverell heir in the flesh to his parents. He went on and on for so long about how absolutely essential it was that Hephaestus come home with him, that Harry was soon resigned to meeting the rest of the Malfoy family sooner or later that afternoon.

"We could take the Knight Bus," he sighed.

But, of course, they couldn't take the Knight Bus. Oh, no. Draco had been mortally offended at the very suggestion. The bus was for poor people and squibs. Malfoys wouldn't be caught dead on the Knight Bus.

"Fine," Harry said testily. He had a feeling that Malfoy's snobbery would get old pretty fast if they kept up this sort-of friendship. "What do you want to do then? Fly to Wiltshire?"

"Well, I guess that we could go to the Ministry instead. Father's bound to be there still. He was going to spend most of the day there. When he sees you, he'll take off straight away though."

Harry looked at the blonde suspiciously. "Draco," he said, lowering his voice so that they wouldn't be heard by passerby in the bright street. "Why, exactly, do I have to meet your father before we talk to any other…people like us? Why don't we just go wait at the apothecary? Zate could owl a message to your father telling him not to come obliviate me…or…well, something."

"It's not that you have to," Malfoy admitted in a pleading tone. "But you should. I'm the first person to know about you, so my family should get to Announce you. Zate probably wouldn't even bother to let anyone know, and it's important. Everyone will want to know about you as soon as possible, and my parents can get the word out best. We've got better resources."

Harry was surprised at how easily his brain was beginning to translate Malfoy-speak into English. He gathered that "announcing" a new Dark wizard to the rest of the community was a huge deal, possibly prestigious in some way, and Draco didn't want to give up the limelight. He also had a sinking suspicion that the other boy placed a lot of store in being the first person to know that Harry was a Dark wizard. He'd hinted several times since they left Knockturn that he was extremely flattered and honored by Hephaestus' "trust." Frustrating though this was, Harry supposed it was all mostly well-intentioned.

"Alright," he agreed with a sigh. What did it matter, really, if he saw Lucius Malfoy this afternoon or in a few days? He was bound to have to see him some time now that he was a confirmed Dark wizard. "We'll go to the Ministry then."

"Excellent!" Malfoy beamed and clapped him on the back. "Do you think it's a far walk? I've only ever side-alonged or flooed."

"I know how to get there," Harry said, hoping that his memory of his past trips to the visitor's entrance was sufficient to help him navigate through London. "We'll need to change clothes, though, or the muggles will think we're a pair of loons. "

The next hour had been one of the more humorous of Harry's existence. If he ever owned a pensieve, he would make sure that the memory was preserved for posterity...and blackmail. Malfoy had been so pleased and relieved to get his way, that he was agreeable enough about the muggle clothes.

"It's like a costume really, isn't it? And I'll carry my robes to put over them when we get to the Ministry."

Harry had led the familiar way back to the Doxy Closet, nodding at faces he recognized as he passed, making a mental note to tell Zate that one of the bins outside of Turnsteel's Treasures seemed to be housing a very active boggart, and responding to Malfoy's questions. Now that they were safely away from Diagon Alley, the Slytherin wanted to know everything about Hephaestus's marking. He'd done it all himself? How had it been? He'd completed the midsummer rituals? What did he think of it? How was he going to school himself?

Harry gave sketchy answers to most of these questions. After all, he could hardly tell Malfoy that he would be going to Hogwarts and likely educating himself in Dark magic by night in some hidden dungeon room where Albus Dumbledore and every other soul in the castle couldn't find him. He was also pretty sure from his reading that his experience during the midsummer ritual had been anything but standard, so he glossed over that. No need to let Malfoy have loads of personal information.

Malfoy was so interested in their conversation, that he seemed to have lost track of where they were, and as Harry turned down Daemon Lane toward the Doxy Closet he suddenly came back to himself. "Hephaestus, where are we going?"

Harry gestured to the black and pink inn. "Right there. Muggle clothes remember?"

Malfoy stopped dead, his eyes widening. "You live there?"

"Yes?"

"But..." Malfoy seemed to be at a loss for words for the first time since Harry had met him. "But... Hephaestus, that's a brothel." He hissed the last word under his breath even though the lane was mostly empty at midday.

"I know. The ladies are nice, and the rooms are clean and cheap. I like it." Harry was pleased that he managed this with a straight face and a nonchalant voice.

Malfoy was squirming slightly and grimacing as he stared at the inn. " I can't go into a brothel!" he burst out at last. "What if my parents find out?"

Harry couldn't help but laugh a little at Malfoy's mortified expression. Who would have guessed that all it took to rattle the cold-faced Slytherin was the idea of prostitution? Harry took great pleasure in taking out his wand and smacking the stunned blonde on the head with it, muttering a spell under his breath. Malfoy let out a shocked squawk like a wounded flamingo and stumbled back.

Harry had no doubt he was reaching for his wand, even though it was a bit difficult to tell now. "Disillusionment charm," he said quickly to the camouflaged boy. "Now no one will know."

"You could have warned me," Malfoy muttered, but he followed Harry into the Doxy Closet.

A few minutes later, the two of them were in the t-shirts and jeans that Robin had provided for Harry's wardrobe, and Harry was leading the way out the back entrance of Knockturn Alley. Malfoy had refused to wear trainers, even though Harry had told him he looked stupid in wizards' boots and jeans (which were a little too short for Malfoy anyway), and he was carrying Harry's sock-turned-bag with his robes stuffed in it.

The walk to the nearest underground station was awkward. Malfoy was wide-eyed and extra-pale, and he stared around him like he was about to fly off the handle at any moment. He stood almost on top of Harry, and after he bumped into him for the second time Harry snapped, "Draco, do you have to walk on top of me? People are going to think there's something wrong with you."

Of course Malfoy was offended by this, and he promptly dropped off to walk a couple of paces behind. Harry glanced back over his shoulder from time to time, and the blonde looked increasingly more out of sorts with every step they took. After a short distance, it dawned on Harry that Draco Malfoy had likely never been out in the muggle world before, and certainly not without his parents. He wondered how Draco got on the school train. He was pretty sure it was impossible to apparate directly to the platform. He supposed the Malfoys apparated to King's Cross right before the Hogwarts Express was due to leave, walked straight through to Platform 9 3/4, and then deposited Draco on the train. So all in all, the Malfoy scion had probably never spent longer than a couple of minutes surrounded by muggles. Harry tried to imagine what that must be like, but couldn't.

Feeling somewhat guilty, Harry dropped back to walk with the other boy, and he made a valiant effort to keep up a one-sided conversation as he led the way down to the Underground. As they got off an escalator, he said, "So, it's only a few stops away I think. I've only been this way once before but..." he looked at Malfoy, whose pale face had gone even paler. "Are you alright?"

"There's so many of them," he replied in a faintly sick voice.

"Errr..." Harry said. "So many of what?"

"Muggles," said Malfoy. "I've never..." he paused to collect himself. "I mean to say, I just never realized that Muggle London was so big and crowded."

"Well, yeah," said Harry. "Wizards and witches only make up a tiny percentage of the population." A nearby muggle girl about his age looked at him sharply as he said this, and took a couple of steps away.

"I knew that," said Malfoy. "I'm not stupid. I just never realized..." he shrugged.

Harry nodded uncomfortably. He couldn't help but wonder whether Malfoy was reconsidering the sanity of Voldemort's plan for world domination, but now was hardly the time or place to ask. "Let's go," he said. "We can be at the Ministry of Magic by two o'clock."

"We're thespians," he told the eavesdropping muggle girl as they passed. "Practicing for a play."

After he purchased the tickets, he used the change to buy a couple of Mars bars from a stand. Remus swore chocolate could cure just about anything, and Harry thought Malfoy looked like he needed curing. Besides, they had missed lunch.


	22. Blackout

Chapter 22: Blackout

6-2-4-4-2. Harry's hand felt heavy as he dialed, and he had to work hard to control his breathing. Malfoy was standing behind him in the old phone booth, staring over his shoulder curiously. The other wizard had thrown on his robes as soon as they had arrived on the run-down street, and now, at the entrance to the Ministry, he was all confidence and enthusiasm again.

Harry, on the other hand, was having an unexpectedly hard time dealing with his emotions. Was it really just weeks ago that he had crowded into this phone booth with Neville, Luna, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione? Just weeks ago that Sirius had died? Weeks since he had faced off against Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort himself?

He looked at his reflection in the booth's glass. Who was this person with no curse scar and eyes like ice? How could he be standing here with Draco, on his way to see Lucius Malfoy, while Sirius was dead? While the Order searched frantically for him, while thousands of people were counting on him to save them from the coming darkness. Who was Hephaestus Peverell, and what had happened to Harry Potter?

The welcome witch's voice was filling the booth, "Visitor to the Ministry..." but Harry couldn't answer. His reflection stared back at him, eyes shifting from ice to emerald and back again so fast that he could barely register the changes. Shite! He didn't need this right now. Malfoy was responding to the voice. He had to pull himself together. He was Harry Potter, and he was also a Dark wizard. He was Hephaestus Peverell, and he was going to kill Voldemort one day. This double identity thing had thrown him off, but he was still him, no matter what face he wore, and he was doing what he needed too. Now wasn't the time for second guessing.

His eyes settled on ice blue, and he breathed a sigh of relief. A pale, well-manicured hand fell on his shoulder as the booth began to descend. "Hey, are you okay?"

He looked back at Draco. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine. Momentary identity crisis." Let Malfoy try to figure out what he meant.

But Draco only nodded. "I can't even imagine," he said as he handed over the little metal badge that the phone had spat out. "But don't worry about it, Hephaestus. People like us...well, we may not always see eye to eye, but we watch out for our own. You'll understand soon. You'll see."

Harry nodded, surprised that he felt somewhat comforted by Draco's words, and he looked at the badge in his hand. He raised an eyebrow at his companion.

"I know," said Draco sheepishly. "I told it we were here to see my father, and I don't think it's too smart."

The badge glowed in the golden light of the Ministry atrium. "Hephaestus Peverell," it said, "Visiting Family."

[][][][][][]

Lucius Malfoy had had a displeasing day. His son, for some obscure reason, had jeopardized the safety of not only his family but also the entire Dark community by sharing information long kept quiet with a boy whom they knew very little about. Despite his own hopes and Zate's tentative optimism with regard to Peverell, no one should have approached him so openly for weeks, or even months. These things had to be handled delicately. Honestly, he'd thought his son had more sense.

He hoped he could convince Severus to do the actual obliviation. It could get messy if done improperly, and mind magics had never been his forte. There would be lots of crying and hysteria, and a botched job would leave him with a gibbering idiot. He winced at the thought. Such a waste of so much potential. He would definitely talk Severus into it.

Lucius really hated the messier aspects of being a Death Eater and a Dark wizard. Pulling the strings of the political machine, navigating through intrigues, and studying the obscure magics of the past were more his cup of tea. But even manipulating his various contacts in the Department of International Magical Cooperation hadn't been very enjoyable with the concerns hanging over his head today. He wondered how offended Yaxley would be if he stopped by Level One to check on the newly-Imperiused officials. He could dodge Scrimgeour easily enough. It was bound to be more interesting than convincing the Transylvanian representative to push for yet another extension on the country's promise to sign the International Ban on Dueling. Yes, he would go check on Yaxley's projects. It wasn't as if he'd been told not to. The tea and biscuits were better on Level One too.

It was as he exited the offices of the International Confederation of Wizards that Lucius Malfoy's day got considerably brighter. The lift doors opened as he approached them, and he looked up, prepared to smile or sneer at whomever exited as the situation demanded it, only to find his son standing there.

"Draco? What are you..." he began, and then he saw his son's companion.

Hephaestus Peverell stood just behind Draco. The boy stuck out like a sore thumb. He wore muggle clothing head-to-toe, and the expression on his face was distinctly resigned. Lucius sighed mentally at the teenager's fashion choices, but that could be forgiven. Indeed, almost any transgression could be forgiven in light of the gleaming blue mark on Peverell's cheek.

"Father," Draco said, and Lucius became aware that he had been standing and staring for too long. He glanced down the hall in both directions. It was empty. "Hephaestus and I think you might want to reconsider obliviating him."

Lucius allowed a genuine smile to show on his face. "Indeed," he said. "I don't think there will be any need for that."

He turned to the newest Dark wizard and took a moment to size him up. Lucius Malfoy considered himself to be an excellent judge of character, and he knew, looking into Peverell's eyes and at the stubborn set of his jaw, that the boy was something out of the ordinary. What, exactly, he wasn't sure, but the young man before him was special in some way. Mind made up, he swept a shallow formal bow. "Mr. Peverell," he said, "I believe I will be at your service for the rest of the afternoon."

[][][][][][][]

Having Lucius Malfoy bow to him was just the cherry on top of Harry Potter's very strange day. They left the ministry directly from the lift. Mr. Malfoy's silver cloak pin was a portkey that took them straight to the entryway of Malfoy Manor. They arrived in the fashion that Harry normally associated with portkey travel - he landed flat on his back on the marble floor with a churning stomach. The Malfoys arrived on their feet, but they stumbled a bit. Draco blinked in surprise.

"Wow," he said as Harry picked himself up off the floor. "You've really got to learn to apparate. I haven't had a portkey landing that bad since the first time I tried it."

"Yes," Mr. Malfoy agreed. "If you have trouble with portkeys as well as floos, you must learn apparition as soon as possible. I'll see if I can arrange something with the Office of Magical Transportation for you. They've been known to license wizards early in special circumstances."

"Really?" Harry asked, wondering why no one else had ever mentioned it. Surely being number one on Voldemort's hit list qualified as a special circumstance. "That would be brilliant. Thank you."

At that moment, Narcissa Malfoy swept into the foyer. Harry couldn't help but wonder what she did all day dressed like that. She couldn't exactly be doing housework. She was wearing pale grey robes so light that they almost floated when she walked, satin slippers, and her long hair hung down past her waist. She didn't look nearly as old as Harry knew she was either. Harry wondered if it was wrong to think that Malfoy's mom was kind of hot when she wasn't looking down her nose at everyone. Then he wondered how long it would take for Ron to go into cardiac arrest if he ever mentioned this during one of their dorm room discussions.

"Lucius!" she said, seeming truly delighted to see her husband. "The house elves said you were home early. Why..." then she caught sight of Harry. She let out a small gasp and covered her mouth with a delicate hand. "Really?" she asked, her eyes glowing with excitement.

Feeling self-conscious but pleased, Harry drew his thumb down his face to encompass his mark. Narcissa let out an excited little chirp that Harry might have been tempted to call a girlish squeal if it had been less dignified and repeated the gesture against her own face, which was marked with a many-pointed star.

She swept across the distance between them so quickly that Harry couldn't help but be startled when she grabbed him by the shoulders. "Let me look at you, Hephaestus dear," she said, holding him at arm's length and turning him slightly from side to side like she was examining a work of art. "Marvelous," she said. "You've achieved a wonderful union for your first time. Zate helped I suppose?"

"Errrr..." said Harry, feeling befuddled. What was she going on about?

"Mother," said Draco exasperatedly.

"Simply marvelous," Narcissa said again, now squinting at him slightly.

"Mother," said Draco. "Mum, let him go. You're confusing him."

"Hmmm?" said Narcissa. "Oh, of course! I'm terribly sorry, Hephaestus. I was just checking your aura. You've achieved an excellent union for someone engaging in his first ritual. I can still see the remnants of it."

"Right," said Harry, still feeling nonplussed. He couldn't help but think of Trelawney. "I didn't really know that people could see auras...I mean, I've heard people mention them but I always thought they were just frauds."

"It's a rare gift these days, Mr. Peverell," Lucius Malfoy said with a look of faint pride directed at his wife. "Narcissa is quite skilled."

Narcissa let her hands drop from his shoulders. "My husband is overly flattering, Hephaestus. My aura sight is limited, and it generally requires a great deal of effort, nothing like a true Seer's gift. You have a very beautiful aura, by the way. I didn't have time to check it when I saw you before."

"Thanks," said Harry, hoping that was a sufficient response.

"Well," she said as she stepped back. "Why don't we all go to the parlor? I'll have the elves bring us some tea. You've all had lunch haven't you?"

"I'm fine," said Harry quickly.

"Sandwiches would be nice, Mother. Hephaestus and I didn't eat," Malfoy said.

Narcissa nodded her understanding, and a house elf was soon dispatched to fetch the teenage wizards a suitable lunch. "Come now, Hephaestus," she said, taking him by the arm and steering him toward the parlor. "You must tell us everything. I'm surprised that Zate hasn't Announced you yet."

[][][][][][]

The elder Malfoys were surprised and then delighted when they learned that even Zate was unaware of his assistant's marking. Apparently revealing himself as a Dark wizard to Draco before anyone else gave the Malfoys some say in how he was "Announced" to the community at large. Harry wished he had known that beforehand.

The manor elves made excellent sandwiches though, and he was relatively content to eat his way through the plate while Lucius and Narcissa discussed the best course of action. The Malfoys seemed to be in their element, laying out plans and trying to decide who needed to know at once and who could wait until later in the week. Should they send a message to the Irish families as well as the British? What about the French? Harry was being lulled into a false sense of security by the sheer incomprehensibility of their conversation until he heard Narcissa say, "Do you think we'll need to open up the ballroom again? We might be able to get enough people together, even on short notice, to make it worthwhile."

Ballrooms were bad. Large groups of people in ballrooms implied dancing and fancy clothes and horribly frightful encounters with lustful Pansy Parkinsons. He would not be forced to be the guest of honor at some kind of overblown Malfoy party. How to stop it from happening though? Narcissa Malfoy was now wondering aloud how they would be able to get enough Dark wizards together without tipping anyone off to the exact nature of the gathering.

Harry shot a pleading look at Draco. He had told the blonde before that he disliked social functions. Surely they couldn't be planning on making him the star of one? Draco smiled smugly at him and shook his head. What did that mean? He wasn't going to help? Harry had a sneaking suspicion that this was some kind of payback for taking the wizard-raised boy on the muggle Underground. He gave Draco a death glare, but it had no helpful effect either. The other boy made a great show of examining the pattern on his teacup.

Harry steeled himself. "Lady Malfoy," he said firmly, "I would really prefer not to have any sort of large...party-like...event. It's just not to my taste."

Draco grinned broadly at him and applauded silently while his parents faces were turned. Harry wondered how inappropriate it would be to make a rude gesture at him. Narcissa Malfoy's face fell momentarily, but then she perked up. "Don't be silly, Hephaestus darling," she said. "It's not going to be a large event at all, just a little get together with some of the more prominent Dark families. You'll enjoy it very much. I promise not to invite enough people to fill the ballroom."

Harry opened his mouth to ask for more details, but he was cut off with a breathtaking smile, and a softly spoken, "And don't bother with calling me Lady Malfoy. You may call me Narcissa."

Disgruntled, he settled back against the cushions, wondering why he felt like he'd just been outmaneuvered. She'd promised not to invite a ballroom full of people right? How bad could it be?

Draco, an evil gleam in his eyes that made Harry feel the need to reach for his wand, chose that moment to lean in toward him and say in a quiet tone: "The ballroom holds four hundred, so she can still invite 399 people and not fill it."

Harry hated Slytherins. He stood up, wondering why pretty Narcissa Malfoy was almost as difficult to face in this brightly-lit parlor as her husband had been in full Death Eater garb in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. "Narcissa," he said as politely as he could while still being firm. "Thank you so much, but I really have to insist that...that..."

Suddenly the room was spinning around him crazily. He thought that he heard someone ask if he was alright, but there was a terrible ringing in his ears. He felt awful, as though a hundred dementors had swept through the room all at once, sucking out all the energy and happiness. The last thing he thought before everything went black was Shite! I've been poisoned.


	23. Saying Hello

Chapter 24: Saying Hello

If his head hadn't been pounding like a whole herd of centaurs were galloping through it, Harry would have thought he was having a nightmare. He opened his eyes to the sight of the sallow-skinned, greasy-haired, hook-nosed Hogwarts potions professor reaching a claw-like hand toward his throat. He did what any reasonably sane Gryffindor would have done when faced with this situation. He screamed bloody murder.

Snape leapt back as though he'd been scalded. Harry scrambled up in the bed, looking frantically for his wand. "What the devil is wrong with you, boy?" Snape snapped. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

Harry's hands found his wand on the bedside table. Clutching it to his chest, he drew in several shaky breaths, trying to calm himself down. Snape had no reason to murder Hephaestus Peverell. As long as he didn't make eye contact with his professor everything should be fine. Unless Snape had read his mind in his sleep? Could Legilimenses do that?

He stared at a spot just over his teacher's head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was just startled. What happened? Where am I?"

"You, Mr. Peverell, suffered a rather severe crash from a dose of Everclear Elixir. You've been passed out for several hours. You are in Malfoy Manor in one of the guest rooms. I was going to check your pulse to try to determine whether you were close to regaining consciousness, but in light of the excellent proof you've given me that you are, indeed, no longer insensible, I shall refrain."

"Thanks," he said. "Sorry about that."

"Indeed," said Snape. "Most disconcerting. Are you quite sure you're emotionally stable at the moment? That can be one of the rarer effects of a post-Everclear low."

"Ummm...No. I mean, yes, I'm emotionally stable." In truth he felt anything but it, but he thought that had more to do with the company than with the drug. "Zate didn't warn me about the crash though. I was expecting it to be less dramatic."

"Hmmm," said Snape, and Harry chanced a quick glance toward his face in an effort to determine what the man was thinking. The potions master's face was as impenetrable as usual though.

"Zakarias Zate believes in letting people learn about the nastier aspects of life through firsthand experience. Though, in all truth, he probably simply forgot to warn you. Only first-time users of Everclear experience such severe crashes. They become increasingly less extreme if it is used with any frequency."

"Right," said Harry. "I'll remember that."

Snape stepped up to the bed and extended his hand. "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. My name is Severus Snape. The Malfoy family are close friends of mine, and they called me in to check on you."

"Hephaestus Peverell," Harry said, trying to shake off the Twilight Zone feeling. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," said Snape, "though it appears that my reputation has preceded me."

Harry's confusion must have shown on his face, because Snape continued, "Complete strangers rarely go to such extreme lengths to avoid meeting my gaze, so I can only assume that you already knew who I was."

"Oh," said Harry, feeling stupid. "Well, yeah. Someone pointed you out to me at the party, and I'd heard...well..."

"Quite understandable, Mr. Peverell," Snape said crisply. "A wise practice, in general, to shun the gaze of a Legilimens. Though I am pleased to inform you that I tend to avoid perusing the thoughts of my fellow Dark wizards as a matter of courtesy."

Harry nodded his understanding, but he couldn't quite bring himself to meet Snape's eyes. He was at a loss for anything else to say. Perhaps if he remained silent Snape would leave.

"Well," Snape said at last after the quiet had stretched over the course of several minutes. "I suppose my services are no longer required. I'll inform the Malfoys of your return to consciousness, but I suggest you sleep off the remainder of the effects for at least a few more hours."

"Thank you," said Harry.

He saw Snape nod out of the corner of his eye. "Before I go, I would like to congratulate you on your narrow escape today."

Harry couldn't help himself. He brought his eyes down to meet Snape's. When no verbal explosion or painful hexing occurred, he assumed that his professor was telling the truth about not reading the minds of other Dark wizards. It was a pity the same thing didn't apply to him during term. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Your fainting fit couldn't have come at a more appropriate time. You've successfully escaped from any of Narcissa's more elaborate designs. While you slept, you've been Announced to the Dark community at large. I daresay any number of well-wishers will make the time to meet you over the following weeks, but there is no grand event in the offing."

"Really? That's brilliant!"

"Yes," Snape agreed. "I believe you have Draco Malfoy to thank for your good fortune. He apparently felt some appropriate degree of compassion after you passed out, and he convinced his parents that you would appreciate a more subtle introduction to our world."

"Do you really think a lot of people will be coming to see me?" Harry couldn't help asking. He didn't quite understand the level of excitement around him.

Snape quirked a half-smile that looked distinctly out of place on his face. "Oh, yes. If you are uncomfortable with excessive attention then I'm sure you will find it intolerable. I certainly did when I was in your position."

Harry couldn't quite hide his chagrin at this. It would be so much harder to keep his secrets if Dark wizards were popping up all over the place just to have a look at him. "Great," he muttered.

"My advice to you," said Snape, "is to accept it as gracefully as possible. It will be over soon enough."

Snape looked suddenly annoyed, though it was somewhat difficult to tell as that was his usual expression. Harry noted the sharp twitch in his arm, and he put all of his effort into not staring. He couldn't help but imagine the Dark Mark under the long-sleeved robes though, blazing with Voldemort's call.

The potions master gave a short bow. "I must take my leave, Mr. Peverell, but before I go will you allow me to acknowledge you as my brother Dark wizard?"

Harry stared. He knew he ought to say yes, but the phrasing was just so creepy coming from Snape that he was finding it difficult to get the word out. He settled for a nod instead. Snape stepped forward and reached out a hand to touch the mark on Harry's temple. A spark of magic passed between them, and Harry shivered at the feeling. It was like some miniscule part of him had opened up to become aware of Snape in a way that he wasn't used to. It was tiny and easily overlooked, but it was there. Sensing that it was the correct thing to do, he reached out and returned the gesture, feeling a spark of his own magic connect with the swirling Celtic design on the side of Snape's face. He shivered again.

"Unsettling isn't it?" Snape asked. "I am only the first of many. The others do this when they are small children. They do not understand how strange it is for those of us who have never shared magic with another." His black eyes searched Harry's face for a moment. "Good luck to you, Hephaestus Peverell."

Then he was gone in a sweep of black robes.

[][][][][][]

Harry hadn't even had time to fully take in the luxury of his surroundings, which were a soft cream color with distinctly feminine touches - lace curtains, doilies, frilly throw pillows, before his next visitor arrived. Zate limped into the room huffing and puffing like a bellows. He slammed the door behind him so forcefully that the windows shook. He then proceeded to cast a wide variety of spells around the room. Harry could hazard a guess from his growing knowledge of Latin that most of them were silencing and privacy charms.

"Told them I ought to get to see you first. Had to run to beat that young one up here. Silent trip jinx. I won," Zate muttered as he continued to work on the spells. "My assistant and all. And I'm every bit as qualified as Snape to deal with a teenager coming down from a potions high."

At the end of this confusing series of statements, Zate spun around, hands on his hips, and stared at Harry's face as though he'd never seen anything quite like it before.

"Hello, Mr. Zate," Harry said, feeling a little uncertain. He hoped the old apothecary wasn't too offended not to be the first to know. He was growing to respect the man more every day.

Zate sighed and shook his head. "Hello, boy," he said. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

"That fence-straddling thing I mentioned to you?" Harry said, thinking back to their last open conversation about Dark wizards. "Errr...I decided that maybe I should be a Dark wizard after all."

Zate was still staring at the mark on his face like he expected it to disappear at any moment. "I can see that," he said in a strangled voice. "Congratulations. Welcome to the brotherhood."

"Thanks?" Harry questioned, because Zate definitely seemed to lack the Malfoy family's enthusiasm for the idea. In fact, Snape had seemed more positive, and that was never a good sign.

Zate sat down on the edge of the bed, and Harry threw his legs over the edge to sit up beside him. He was pleased that he was still wearing his muggle clothes from this morning. It would have been too weird if he'd woken up in something different.

"I like you, Hephaestus," said Zate. "You're shaping up into a pretty good apothecary's assistant. You're a smart kid. But..."

"But what?"

Zate's voice was at its most annoyed when he spoke again. It was the voice he usually reserved for customers who couldn't tell the difference between a tentacula and a Devil's Snare. "Have you lost your bloody mind? You can't be a Dark wizard!"

Harry was taken aback and, he had to admit to himself, a bit hurt. "Well it's a bit late in the game for me to change my mind don't you think?" he said testily. "I think it's pretty clear that I can be a Dark wizard."

"No you can't," Zate insisted, still staring at him in disbelief.

"Why not?" Harry demanded.

"Because you're Harry Potter!" Zate screeched.

Time seemed to stand still for a minute. Harry was suddenly aware of his pulse pounding in his ears. Then everything came back into focus. "You knew!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Zate looked as though Harry's response had crushed his last hope. "Oh, gods," he moaned. "You really are Harry Potter. I had almost convinced myself that it was a delusion."

"You're not going to tell the Malfoys are you?" Harry asked. "I really don't want to have to duel my way out of the manor."

"Don't be daft, boy," Zate said in a hollow voice. "If I told them the truth you wouldn't have to duel your way out. They'd all three keel over dead as doorposts from the shock of it." He looked grave. "I won't tell them. You'll need to keep this a secret for as long as you can. If anyone finds out too soon, it could tear us all apart."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, a sinking feeling in his gut.

"It's a bad business, a very bad business, when Dark wizards fight amongst ourselves," said Zate. "Worse than what the Light fanatics can do to us even, I'd say. We're not meant to fight each other, Harry Potter. We share more than just a system of beliefs. We share magic. And when you hurt another Dark wizard, you'll find that nine times out of ten you're hurting yourself even worse."

"I never planned for anyone to know," said Harry. "I can keep it a secret. I've done pretty well so far. How did you guess?"

"I used a potion, a rare one. It's not likely any of the others will do the same. After awhile, when they've had time to get used to the idea of you, to trust you, it might be alright. It will have to be. You can't possibly stay hidden forever."

They sat together in silence for awhile. Harry's head was spinning. Zate knew. Zate knew the truth. He was the only other person in the world who did. "What now?" he asked.

"Now?" said Zate. "Can you shift back to yourself or are you stuck like this?"

"I can change how I look whenever I want," Harry admitted.

Zate snorted. "Might have been easier the other way around," he said. "Let's see it then."

"What? Right now?"

"No, sometime in August. Of course right now! I'm not getting any younger."

Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help feeling pleased that Zate was getting back to his usual difficult self. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He expected to have to force himself back into looking like Harry Potter like he had last time, but to his surprise the shift happened smoothly. He thought "I'm Harry Potter," and then, quite suddenly, he was.

"Huh," Zate huffed. He stared, wide-eyed, at his tousle-haired, green-eyed assistant. "Damnedest thing," he muttered. "Got the whole package I guess? Scar and all."

Harry rubbed one hand up and down the familiar lightning bolt scar. "Yeah," he said. "This is me."

"You've got a nice blue mark on this face as well," Zate noted. "I guess that clinches it every way it could be."

"I suppose so," Harry agreed. He winced inside. How was he going to deal with the mark at Hogwarts?

"So who are you really?" asked Zate. "Are you more Hephaestus Peverell or more Harry Potter?"

Harry finally felt like he had the answer to that question. "I don't think it matters. I used to try to separate them out, but really I'm just me. The faces and the names...they both belong to the same person. I guess I've just got a more complicated life than most people."

Zate snorted. "You've a gift for understatement, boy." He reached out his hand to touch the mark on Harry's face. "I greet you as my brother," he said seriously, and Harry felt the spark jump between them. "Heaven help us all."


	24. Saying Goodbye

Chapter 24: Saying Goodbye

Harry tucked his spiral bound notebooks and his Biros under one arm as he held open the classroom door for his new schoolmates. He smiled and waggled his eyebrows comically at Nera Zabini, age seven, and Penny Temple, age five, as they passed. The girls giggled and grinned. He reserved a more serious nod for the other two members of the class, nine-year-old twins Albin and Arsenio Rowle.

"Do you need help with that, Mrs. Temple?" he asked the mousy woman who followed the twins through the door. She carried a cracked china tea service stacked precariously with plates of biscuits and bacon sandwiches. The pot was bouncing up and down in apparent distress at being filled with hot tea.

"I've got it, Hephaestus," she replied. "Thank you so much though. Take your seat. I hope you've done your reading?" Her voice was teasing.

"Yes, ma'am," he said seriously. "I think you assigned too much though."

"I told her so, Hephaestus!" Penny Temple shouted from where she bounced on the small sofa, her fluffy brown curls springing with the motion. "Mum, didn't I tell you so? Four whole pages!"

"Don't yell in the house, Penny," her mother scolded as she set the platter down on the coffee table.

Harry took his usual seat – a piano bench with a poufy green cushion – and waited for the lesson to begin.

Before, when he was first starting at Hogwarts, Harry had often wondered what school was like for wizardborn children before they turned eleven. He had never really asked anyone, so he hadn't known what to expect when Zate and the Malfoys informed him the day following his Everclear crash that they had made arrangements for him to have lessons with the other young Dark wizards. He had been at first embarrassed, then amused, to realize that he would be having lessons in Mrs. Temple's cramped living room with a group of small children.

Almost all of the wizarding families home schooled their children, or, if they had the money, hired private tutors. But in addition to the more obvious reading and basic arithmetic, the Dark ones shared the task of teaching their young ones everything about Dark traditions and culture. This was the education that Harry was in need of, and while he slept off the effects of the drug, the Malfoys and Zate had called around to find out who was teaching what.

The system was quite informal. Mrs. Temple was a widow who earned a meager living for herself and her daughter by renting out the shop space underneath her flat on Faerie Way to a baker. She was acknowledge by the Dark community at large to have an excellent grasp of what they called "little magic," though, so when she began to teach Penny, others sent their children along to learn as well.

Only a week had passed, but Harry was fascinated by everything he had learned so far. What Mrs. Temple taught would hardly be considered Dark by most people, except for the fact that she prefaced each lesson with traditional Dark fairytales and nursery rhymes that were a bit…grim. Harry thought it strange to assign a five year old a story about a small boy being shredded to pieces by a nest of angry bowtruckles, but it did help to make the lesson more memorable. The boy had been killed because he had forgotten to make the gesture of Good Faith (a more all-purpose appeasement than the standard bowtruckle offering of woodlice) before entering a grove of wand trees.

Harry practiced the motion, hooking his hand into a claw like shape over his heart. "Oh, very good, Hephaestus," Mrs. Temple said from where she watched. "Well done!"

Harry smiled. Mrs. Temple sometimes forgot that he didn't exactly need the same constant praise and encouragement that the other "students" required. Everything he learned from Mrs. Temple was like this. Little magic. Gestures, symbols, special phrases – all things that could be done without a wand. They learned dozens of everyday things to make life a little easier...and a little more magical. So far, Harry had learned how to make a weak protective charm out of nothing but blood and clay, how to make days old ashes bloom back into a fire with a softly whispered word, and even how to whistle up fairies, if any were nearby. Sure, he could do most of the things they learned with a wand, but there was something special about being able to work magic with nothing but his voice or his fingers.

He met Mrs. Temple for an hour every morning, and Zate continued to teach him while he worked at night. His conversations with the older Dark wizard had only gotten better since their talk at Malfoy manor. It was a huge weight off of Harry's mind to have someone who knew who he really was, and Zate no longer had to tip-toe around the really interesting parts of every discussion. Working at the apothecary was now a mishmash of Latin, potions, and cultural instruction. Harry had asked hopefully whether Zate knew Occlumency, but the apothecary had shaken his head.

"I imagine that'll be quite the problem won't it?" he had grumbled. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Don't worry about it for now. I'll think of something."

His only other instructor wasn't quite so pleasant. Lucius Malfoy was frightening enough as a Death Eater, but with a history book in hand he was a demon. Hermione would have loved to sit in on one of his lectures…if they had been delivered by anyone else. Every afternoon before his shift began at the apothecary, Harry took a portkey to Malfoy manor. Draco waited for him in the entryway because he claimed that Hephaestus's crash landings were the best entertainment he had all day. Then they went upstairs to Lord Malfoy's study and talked for a few minutes while they waited on the others to arrive.

Unlike in his morning class, Harry was the youngest student in the Dark history lessons. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott joined them, but the other three - Mulciber, Davan, and Carrow – had recently graduated from Hogwarts. Draco was by far the most tolerable. Zabini was a total narcissist and a bit of an airhead to boot. Nott was just creepy; he would start laughing quietly to himself for no apparent reason, and he seemed to be able to work death and blood into even the dullest conversations. As for Mulciber, Davan, and Carrow...well...they kept to themselves, but Harry got the distinct feeling that there were a lot of black skull and snake tattoos in the room. He half wished that Voldemort would call his servants to a meeting just so that he could make note of which of his classmates flinched.

Draco's father would arrive and take his seat, and an hour and a half of mental torture would begin. They sat in comfortable leather chairs in a half circle around the desk, while Lucius Malfoy talked. On learning that he would be studying the rest of the summer under the blonde Death Eater, Harry had braced himself for anti-muggle and muggleborn lectures, but so far Malfoy had focused much more on ancient history from around the time of the schism between the followers of Merlin and Dark wizards. They were whirlwind lessons. He jumped from topic to topic so fast that Harry spent the majority of the time in a state of complete panic. He was used to Professor Binns droning on and on about Goblin rebellions without ever requesting input; he was not used to being asked every few minutes for his opinion on topics he'd never heard of.

"Mr. Peverell," Lucius had said pleasantly ten minutes into his first class, "What possible ethical justifications were there for the creation of minor demons such as the Twrch Trywth, by the early Dark wizards of Ireland?"

In all fairness, Malfoy never seemed disturbed by his students' confusion. For every question they couldn't answer, he assigned relevant reading, and he expected them to be experts on the subject by the next evening. To Harry's knowledge, no one had ever refused to do the research even though it was usually time consuming and difficult. Lucius Malfoy's presence was a powerful motivating factor. Harry kept waiting for Zabini to slip up. He couldn't help but wondering whether curses would be involved.

He'd left that first class with a sore hand and a scroll of notes that were almost illegible. In all his time at Hogwarts, he'd never mastered the knack of using quill and ink without a desk. Feeling defiant, he had arrived the next night with muggle notebooks and Biros, and though the others had stared at him in a distinctly disapproving way, no one had said anything about it to him. Harry supposed being new gave him some leeway, and he intended to use it. At least he could actually read his notes now.

With all the lessons and work, Harry was much busier than he had ever planned to be this summer, but they weren't his only obligations. Everywhere he went, at any time of the day, Dark wizards would come to greet him and welcome him into the fold. The first half of the week had been the most difficult. They came into Zate's. They waited for him at Mrs. Temple's. A few of the more prestigious people even arrived at Malfoy manor during his history lessons. It was the same every time. They touched his face, congratulated him, and offered words of encouragement. Sometimes they brought gifts. His trunk was overflowing with new books, blankets, clothes, and other odds and ends. One bloke had actually given him a cage full of Eurasian Blow Toads, which Harry had promptly re-gifted to a delighted Zate. All of the clothes actually fit, which Harry could only assume was the result of someone, probably Narcissa, taking his measurements while he was unconscious.

"Hephaestus?"

Harry broke off from his musings only to see Mrs. Temple and the children all staring at him. Crap. She'd obviously asked him something, and he hadn't the faintest idea what it was. Ten years older than one of his classmates, and he still came off looking like a moron. "Errr...sorry," he said lamely.

Nera and Penny giggled again. Mrs. Temple shook her head. "Do try to pay attention, dear. You're a bit too old for me to make you sit in a corner."

[][][][][][]

The blur of color was familiar, so was the jarring smack against cold marble that forced all of his breath from his lungs and left him momentarily dazed. Harry groaned and picked himself up from the floor.

"That one was brilliant, Hephaestus," Draco Malfoy said cheerfully. "Your worst yet!"

"You enjoy this way too much, Draco," Harry muttered as he brushed off his work robes. "Don't you have anything better to do with your afternoons?"

The blonde shrugged. "It's only a few minutes out of my day to wait for you to portkey in. Why would I deprive myself of the entertainment?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Right. Whatever."

"Seriously though," said Malfoy as they headed upstairs. "Have you been studying apparition at all?"

Harry shook his head. "Not since that day in the library," he admitted. "I've been kind of busy."

The other wizard nodded his understanding. "You should stay after the lesson today. Father could help us both work on it."

Harry stopped walking and looked at Draco warily. History wasn't the only "class" taught in the Malfoy home. After the usual lesson, only Harry, Zabini, and Nott left the manor. The others stayed behind. Harry had been intensely curious about this at first, so he'd asked Zate what they might be up to.

"Which of them did you say stayed after?" the apothecary had questioned. They were sorting dried ingredients in the cellar that night.

"Davan, Mulciber, Carrow... What are they doing do you reckon?" Harry had known he shouldn't really ask, that the answer was likely one he didn't want to hear, but he couldn't help himself.

"Hmph," said Zate. "With that group? Dueling I'd imagine, maybe some other practical spellwork. Malfoy's not the finest duelist out there, but he's no slouch at it."

"Is that all?" He had felt slightly relieved. It could have been much more sinister.

"Most likely. If it was anything dodgier, then you wouldn't even know that they were doing it, and if it was something above-board, you'd probably have been invited to join in."

Harry shuddered at the thought. The idea of dueling Lucius Malfoy, even if it was just in a lesson, brought back memories of the Ministry and Sirius. The last thing he needed was a chance to exchange hexes with the Death Eater.

Zate had caught his look. "I wouldn't worry about it, Hephaestus...Harry. As far as the Malfoys are concerned, you're not up to their level. They may believe that you're powerful and even clever, though heaven knows how they arrived at that conclusion when you can't even string shrivel figs properly, but they think you are unschooled. You won't be invited to participate."

Harry's relief had been short-lived. Just two days later Draco had met him in the manor entryway with a particularly pleased smile and invited him to stay after history. He'd been extremely put out when Hephaestus had refused. "Do you know how long it took me to convince, Father?" he'd complained.

Now, though, the offer was been extended again. This time in the form of apparition lessons, which Harry definitely needed, and which were much less daunting than the prospect of "friendly" dueling with a man he hated. Still...

"What about the others?" he asked. "Surely they already know how to apparate?"

"Others? Oh, you mean..." Draco looked momentarily troubled, but his face cleared almost at once. "They're not coming today at all," he said. "They had something else to do, so it would just be me and you."

"What..." He noted Draco's slightly pained expression and decided not to ask. Best not to push for information that he probably didn't want to hear anyway. He still hadn't been able to figure out what he would do if, in the course of spending time at Malfoy manor, he learned about a Death Eater attack being planned. His first thought had been that he would get word to the Order right away, but that idea had been dampened almost at once by a squirming feeling in his gut. He knew that if he was ever put into that situation, it would be much more complicated. Betraying Death Eaters to the Order would also necessitate betraying some Dark wizards, and Harry had the feeling that that wasn't going to be an easy thing to do.

His companion's voice pulled him out of his uneasy contemplation of the problem. "We could ask Blaise and Nott to stay as well, if you like." Draco's tone made it very clear that he hoped this wasn't the case.

"No," said Harry, as they entered Lucius Malfoy's comfortable study. "It'll be easier with just the two of us, and Zabini would probably splinch himself. I'll need to let Zate know that I'll be late for work."

"Excellent!" Draco beamed. "I can't wait to learn to apparate. Father says that it shouldn't take more than a few lessons since we've already read up on the theory."

[][][][][][]

A couple of hours later, Harry was standing in a plowed field next to Draco while they both stared at a large circle ten yards away that Lucius had etched into the dirt with his wand. Malfoy had spent half an hour discussing apparition theory with them, before admitting that the only way to actually learn how to apparate was to practice.

"Have you ever side-along apparated, Mr. Peverell?" he had asked just before they left the study.

"No," Harry admitted with a shake of his head. "I've only ever used portkeys or floos."

"Well then," Lucius had said. "Pay close attention on the way to our destination. It's important to understand the sensation of successful apparition."

He had grabbed both younger wizards firmly by the arm and disapparated from the manor. If there had been enough time, Harry would have panicked. The "sensation of successful apparition" was far from pleasant. In fact, he felt like he was being squeezed through a thin rubber hose. He was a little dizzy and more than a little nauseous when they arrived in the field. Lucius appeared to be completely unruffled, but Harry was relieved to see that Draco didn't look much better than he felt.

"Take a moment to collect yourselves," Malfoy had said as he pulled out his wand to mark off the circle. "It gets easier with practice."

Harry sighed as he stared at the spot of ground. The book he'd read that day at the library had talked a lot about the "three D's." Apparently, one only had to focus on their Destination with Determination after a bit of Deliberation, to successfully apparate. The elder Malfoy had couched it in even simpler terms. "Want to be there, throw your magic behind it, and don't dither. I'm not qualified to put either of you back together if you splinch yourselves."

Draco was staring at the circle with an expression of such intensity that Harry half expected to see steam curling out of his ears. Suddenly, he turned rapidly on the spot, stumbled, and righted himself with a muttered curse just before he landed in the dirt. Harry couldn't help but snicker a bit.

Draco glared at him. "Well I don't see you doing anything more impressive," he snapped.

Lucius Malfoy was sitting in a conjured armchair reading a book. He didn't even look up from the page. "It's only been twenty minutes, boys. It's going to take you a bit longer than that to master apparition. Focus on the circle."

"Are we going to get in trouble with the Ministry if we actually manage to do this?" Harry asked. "I mean, they won't know, right?"

Lucius glanced up at him. "There's no need for concern, Mr. Peverell. The Ministry does not, under normal circumstances, register underage magic that's done in the presence of adult wizards."

Half an hour later, neither of them had managed to make any progress except for getting very dusty from repeated attempts that ended with them falling to the ground. Harry was getting pretty frustrated. Surely there was more to it than they'd been told? Some kind of spell for beginners maybe? He suspected that tonight was a lost cause as far as apparition went. Draco still had a look of fierce concentration on his face, but Harry was starting to feel distinctly bitter towards the stupid circle. He realized it was irrational, but he couldn't quite help himself. He imagined that hating your potential destination probably made it a lot harder to apparate.

And, to top it all off, he had a throbbing headache. As though thinking about it made it worse, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his forehead. He winced. Was he going to start developing migraines now in addition to everything else? Beside him, Draco had started muttering the three D's like a mantra, but the sound was fading in and out like a badly tuned radio.

Harry closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself, and a picture swam to the surface of his mind. He wasn't in the field anymore; he was standing on a muggle street in the darkness on the edge of a pool of yellow light cast by a streetlamp. No muggles stirred from the nearby houses or walked down the sidewalk. The repelling charms made certain of that. Figures in black robes shuffled and whispered nervously behind him.

He turned to one of the few who stood straight-backed and stationary. A pale mask gleamed as the man faced him.

"You are certain of your work, Amycus? I will be most…displeased…if tonight doesn't go as planned."

The man bowed deeply. "I am sure of it, my Lord. The wards have been weakened enough. One spell will bring them down."

"Then let us begin," he said softly. He raised his voice for the wizards behind him. "If you wish to be someone of consequence to your Master, you will have your chance to prove yourselves tonight. Kill the muggles. Leave the girl until last."

He raised his wand and a bright red light shot towards the largest home on the street. Before it reached the house itself, it burst in a shower of sparks against an invisible barrier. A fine golden web of light became visible, wrapped around the house and its yard like an elaborate bird cage. It flickered for a moment, surged brightly once, then it popped and collapsed inward on itself as quietly as a soap bubble.

A teenage girl appeared in one of the upstairs. She stared out into the dark street, her eyes wide and her face unnaturally pale against the frame of her bushy brown hair.

"Do you see, Harry Potter?" he whispered as the black-robed wizards paced towards the house. "Do you see what happens to the people who care for you? You cannot save them, Harry Potter. Watch, now, as she dies."

[][][][][][]

He was pulled out of the vision to the sight of the Malfoys kneeling beside him in the dirt, shouting frantically at him. He couldn't understand the scene though. Their words didn't break through the haze of terror and pain that was smothering his mind.

No, no, no, no, no. Not again. Not Hermione. Not when I'm here where I can't do anything to help her. His thoughts were an anguished litany.

Someone was splashing water on his face. His head was on fire. I have to go there. He might have said it out loud, but he couldn't be sure. Lucius Malfoy's words from the beginning of the ill-fated apparition lesson struggled to the front of his mind, a life line, his only hope.

I have to be there RIGHT NOW! He threw every ounce of himself behind the mental command, and suddenly he was being squeezed through an impossibly tiny tube.

He landed in a crouch on a muggle street, standing just on the edge of a pool of yellow light cast by the streetlamp. His wand was already in his hand. For one wild moment, he thought he'd been mistaken. It was quiet. There were no dark-robed figures to be seen. But the largest house was just a few meters away, and as he looked he saw the multi-hued flash of spells lighting up the windows. A high-pitched scream tore through the evening air, and Harry shot toward the house.

As least, he tried to run to the house. He had taken only a few steps when the air around him suddenly turned thick as treacle. He was struggling just to take a single step forward, and he had to get there right away. He had to save Hermione. He fought his own muscles until he was sobbing for breath. Why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he run?

"Let me go!" he screamed at the invisible force that held him in place.

At that, the pressure increased and he was driven to his knees. Magic. It was holding him down, pressing inside of him. In the back of his mind, there was a spark of recognition. This wasn't one of Voldemort's spells. This was his own magic, and ambient magic, holding him here against his will.

Every second was precious, but Harry forced himself to turn his thoughts inward. Why was he being held back? What was wrong with him?

The impressions that came to him weren't exactly words; they were feelings. Safety. Secret. Caution.

His nails were biting into the flesh of his palms in helpless anger, but he forced himself to calm down. He only had moments to save Hermione, but he had to think rationally. He looked down at his hands. They were slender and pale. Hephaestus Peverell couldn't barge in and save Harry Potter's best friend.

Within the space of a heartbeat, his vision suddenly blurred so much that he could barely see his hands anymore. He fumbled in an inner pocket of his robes for his glasses and put them on his face. As his fingers brushed against his temple, he felt the faint coolness of his mark. Harry Potter couldn't be seen with the mark of a Dark wizard. He didn't even hesitate to point his wand at his own face.

"Diffindo," he whispered, putting as little power into the spell as he could manage. It still hurt terribly, much worse than cutting the mark had, but he knew even without looking that the side of his face was now a mess of split skin and blood. Rivulets of sticky heat were already dripping down towards his chin. The mark would be almost invisible under the gore. With that done, he found that he could stand again, and with slightly more caution than before he ran towards the house.

[][][][][][]

Harry wished for his invisibility cloak. He cast a disillusionment charm over himself, but he knew it would be no defense against a cautious lookout. Fortunately, the first Death Eater he encountered was alone and not particularly cautious. The man was robed and masked, and his sleeve was pulled up to reveal a badly burned arm with a Dark Mark tattooed into the flesh. He was sitting on the sofa in the well-appointed living room, carefully spelling bandages around his arm. His back was turned as Harry crept past.

A month ago, Harry would have stunned him and left it at that. He had learned since the Department of Mysteries though. A stupefied opponent could be back in fighting form within minutes. "Confringo," he whispered with his wand pointed at the back of the man's head. His blasting curse was perfectly aimed.

There was a woman's body on the staircase leading up to the second floor. Harry couldn't bring himself to turn it over and check the face, but he knew it must be Hermione's mother. Another scream from upstairs lead him on.

A sick feeling of dread in his stomach, he stood in the hall looking in on what must be Hermione's bedroom. The walls were covered in books, and the desk had stacks of parchment and inkwells. The scene inside was horrifying, and Harry felt utterly helpless before it.

There had been a fight here, but not much of one. A few books were scattered about. A chair was overturned. One wall had some scorch marks. But other than that, the room looked more or less unscathed. The Granger's themselves hadn't been as lucky. The bedroom was spacious, but there were half a dozen Death Eaters crowded into it. One of them held his wand on a man on the floor, who thrashed and convulsed in agony. The others were laughing at the sight.

Bellatrix Lestrange stood with her back to the bedroom window, her arms tightly gripping a fiercely struggling Hermione. Hermione's face was twisted in horror, tears streaming from her eyes, and she was clearly screaming as she watched her father being tortured, though no sound escaped from her. She had been silenced.

And there, watching from the corner of the room with a sadistic fire behind his eyes, was Voldemort himself. Harry wanted to throw up. Always before, when faced with extreme danger, he had had to act at once. There had never been time to watch and consider what he should do or to be afraid or to second guess himself. Now, though, he was forced to take that time against his will, because just a glance into the room had told him that the situation was hopeless. There were too many to fight, and with no invisibility cloak he would never be able to sneak into the crowded room; he was already in danger of being spotted, no matter how still he stood. Disillusionment charms were far from perfect.

Any curse big enough to be effective against all of the Death Eaters would likely harm Hermione as well. For a split second, Harry considered casting a finite on himself, shouting for their attention and then running away. Surely they would all take off after him, but even Bellatrix would probably have the presence of mind to finish off Hermione with a quick Avada Kedavra before pursuing him.

A gurgling sound called his attention to the man on the floor. Blood was bubbling out of Mr. Granger's mouth, and his convulsions had turned into mere twitches. Harry realized that his hands were trembling and his mouth had gone completely dry. He was about to watch one of his best friends die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He didn't really make a decision, so much as he acted out of panic. With Mr. Granger dying on the floor and the Death Eaters laughing at Hermione's soundless screams, Voldemort flicked a lazy finger at Bellatrix.

"Take care of the girl now," he said in a bored tone. "She doesn't know anything of use."

Bellatrix cackled maniacally as she dug her wand into the side of Hermione's throat. "Poor little mudblood," she said in a sing-song. "No one to help her."

Harry's brain finally produced an idea that seemed slightly less suicidal than all the others he had thought of, and with Bellatrix about to say the words that would end Hermione's life, there was no more time to think about consequences. Still under his disillusionment charm, Harry raced into the room at full speed.

He barely brushed by the Death Eater nearest the door, so there was nothing to slow his momentum as he leapt in a flying tackle toward Bellatrix and Hermione. Lestrange lost her balance, and all three of them crashed through the second story window.

It had never occurred to Harry that the Grangers might have a swimming pool, and he definitely hadn't realized that the paved area around the small pool went right up to the hedges under Hermione's bedroom window. He'd fallen from some pretty impressive heights while playing quidditch, but he'd never flown through a sheet of glass and landed on concrete before. It hurt. A lot.

The second part of his not-plan had been to stun Bellatrix and finite the silencing charm on Hermione, but in the precious seconds following his first attempt to fly without a broom he barely had the presence of mind to struggle to his feet. The wizards in the room above him recovered from their shock more quickly. A jet of ugly orange light shot into the pavement just a foot away, leaving a smoking crater.

Snapping out of his stupor, Harry turned his wand on Bellatrix only to find that the woman, who had been bottommost of the three as they landed, was either unconscious or dead. Hermione seemed more or less unharmed, but she was just laying there, trembling.

He pointed his wand at her. "Finite," he said, and suddenly he could hear her whimpers and her little wheezing gasps of breath.

Another hex shot past him, just missing, as he dragged Hermione to her feet, and Harry realized that the Death Eaters couldn't aim effectively at a disillusioned target in the dark. Voldemort was shouting something from inside the house. Harry's forehead was burning. He grabbed Hermione's arm and tried to disapparate, but nothing happened. Anti-apparition spells maybe, or maybe he just couldn't do it. He began to stumble back toward the light of the streetlamp where he'd first arrived, dragging Hermione after him.

"We have to run," he told her frantically. "Come on, run, Hermione. It's me, Harry. We've got to get out of here."

He dragged her along for a few more steps before she seemed to understand him and started running on her own. They were just meters away from the streetlamp when a spell lit the night around them briefly purple. Harry screamed as it grazed his left arm. He felt the bone shatter.

The Death Eater had fired from beside a parked car on the other side of the street, and Harry shot a blasting curse at it just a little too late. The masked wizard was already running toward them, and he only stumbled slightly at the force of the explosion behind him. The Death Eater's eyes widened in shock as he finally saw the identity of his opponent. "Potter!" he shouted.

His surprise gave Harry the chance to fire off a plague hex. The sickly yellow light flew wide of its mark though, and the Death Eater had time to recover his wits. Another jet of violet light was speeding toward them.

"Specule!" Harry said. Just as it had that night in Knocturn Alley, the reflective shield bloomed from the end of his wand. The purple spell crashed into it with enough force to send Harry stumbling backwards, but the shield held, and the jet of light ricocheted off toward the wizard who had cast it.

A series of cracks could be heard as the spell hit his chest. The man screamed, and his mask flew off as he fell backward onto the pavement. The light from the streetlamp and the burning car illuminated the pallid, blue-marked face of Davan, his history classmate, and Harry felt as though all the air had been pressed from his lungs.

He didn't have time to dwell on it though. Hermione was clutching at the back of his shirt, and more black-robed figures were approaching at a run, drawn by the spellfire and the explosion. Voldemort's long strides put him in the lead. Harry grabbed Hermione with his good arm, and they ran the short distance to the streetlamp.

"Potter!" Voldemort bellowed.

Clinging tightly to Hermione, Harry spun himself into blackness with a deafening Crack! A bolt of green light spattered harmlessly off the pavement where they had stood only a moment before.


	25. Aftermath

Chapter 25: Aftermath

The three D's of apparition are all equally important; without any one of them the process can go rather badly. Harry Potter was learning that first hand. Even with the excruciating pain in his left arm and the need to hold on tightly to Hermione, he realized almost at once that he'd gotten something wrong.

The squeezing blackness, the awful pressure - it wasn't ending. This was no quick blink from place to place; it went on and on and on, and he felt like he was being shredded to pieces by an invisible force. Why wasn't it stopping? Where was he going?

Therein lay the problem of course. Running for his life from Voldemort had given him more than enough determination to throw the two of them into apparition space, but he hadn't had any destination in mind. Mid-apparition isn't the best time to consider one's destination, and the first thing that popped into Harry's head was "My room."

He didn't hear the Crack! as he and Hermione landed hard on the ground. He was too busy screaming. His arm, which had already been badly broken by Davan's spell, now felt like it was a fleshy bag of splinters.

He sucked in a deep breath, trying to pull himself together, and he wiped at his eyes with his good hand only to find that that hurt too. The whole left side of his face was a mess of torn flesh, throbbing and still oozing blood.

Harry struggled to his feet and took stock of his surroundings. He'd intended to end up in his room at the Doxy Closet, but that had been stupid of course. Wizards couldn't just apparate into Diagon and Knockturn Alley. The Ministry's own safety measures prevented it, and of course individual shop keepers kept their stores warded to deter theft.

Instead, the two of them had landed in the secret back alley in the muggle world, right next to the manhole cover that led to Knockturn. They were lucky to have all of their usual appendages. Some detached part of Harry's mind noted that the place still smelled like cannabis and motor oil. He looked down at his friend. "Hermione?" he asked in a shuddering voice.

She was curled up into a tiny ball on the ground. Her tangled bushy hair covered her face completely as she clutched at her knees and rocked back and forth. She didn't speak. Harry was suddenly worried for her all over again. What had happened to her before he got there?

He took a step closer. "Are you alright?" he asked, immediately feeling stupid. Of course she wasn't alright. How could anyone be alright after that? "Are you hurt?" he asked instead.

Still no response. Right. She was obviously in shock or something. Harry didn't know what to do about anything. He couldn't leave her here, and he couldn't take her with him into Knockturn Alley. Even if he could get her to move, she was wearing denim shorts and thong sandals; she'd stick out. He could give her his robes and shift his features. He had muggle clothes on underneath as well; but he was a familiar face in Knockturn, and he could get away with it. But how would he explain his appearance? He felt like he'd been run through a meat grinder, and he imagined he looked it too.

The only person he would trust to help at all was Zate...maybe Robin too, though she would ask questions he couldn't possibly answer. If only he had Hedwig, he could send a message, but his owl was all the way back in his room at the Doxy Closet, under strict instructions to stay out of sight.

Wait a minute... Contrary to appearances, Knockturn Alley was only a street or so away from here in terms of space. Could he, maybe, accio his owl? Would the Ministry register it if he did magic here? He was probably alright so far. Apparating away from the Malfoys had been done in the presence of an adult wizard, so it wouldn't register; and he highly doubted that Voldemort had scheduled an attack in a muggle neighborhood without making sure that the Ministry couldn't get wind of spells being cast in the area.

But did this dingy, magically hidden back entrance into Knockturn count as part of Knockturn Alley or as part of the muggle world? Were there enough wizards nearby for him to remain undetected? Whatever, he thought after struggling with the idea for a minute. He needed help, and he could tell from the feeling of weakness and surreality that was settling over him that he might not be able to stay conscious much longer. Apparating anywhere else was out of the question when he was in this state.

He lifted his wand in a shaky hand, his mind flashing back to the first task of the Triwizard Tournament briefly as he said, "Accio Hedwig." He winced. His owl was never going to forgive him for the indignity of this.

Harry waited. Hermione was rocking back and forth still, refusing to speak. After a couple of minutes had passed Harry wondered if the spell was going to work at all. Could you even summon owls? He'd summoned Trevor the toad before, but maybe it didn't work with intelligent creatures.

A group of muggle teenagers passed by on the street without ever turning to look toward the witch and wizard just feet away. They were joking with each other, pushing and shoving and smiling. The sound of their laughter was strange to Harry, and the feeling that welled up inside of him as they passed out of sight was even more foreign. He wished so badly, for a moment, that he could be one of those people. No Voldemort, no war, no secrets, no prophecy.

No magic either, he reminded himself firmly. He leaned his back against the grimy brick wall behind him and looked up at the sky. The stars weren't really visible tonight with all of the lights of London around him, but a warm breeze found its way down between the buildings to him.

"Hermione," he said, not really expecting a response. He was pretty sure she was too far gone to understand anything he was saying anyway. "I'm really glad you're alive. I was so afraid for you."

He didn't look at her, but he kept talking just to distract himself from the pain. "It was a vision, you know? Not a trap this time. I bet you'd have told me not to pay attention to it. Like you did with Sirius. Wish I'd listened to you then."

He closed his eyes at the thought of Sirius, both relieved and regretful that the memory seemed so distant. It almost felt like something out of another life. The breeze stirred his hair again. "I'm pretty glad to be alive myself," he said. "Things have gotten worse over the last couple of months." An image of Mr. Granger's convulsing body flashed across his mind, and he shook it away.

"But they've gotten better too," he said. "I've learned loads this summer. Things I'd never imagined before...I wish I could tell you about it." He could feel what he really needed to say trying to work its way out of him, but he was half-afraid to say the words. Saying the words would make it real, for both of them.

"I'm sorry about your parents," he said finally. "I came as fast as I could." It's all my fault, he thought, but he couldn't quite add that. Part of him knew it wasn't true, and another part of him hated himself for knowing that.

He opened his mouth to say something else, a useless comfort, but he heard a rush of wings and looked up to see Hedwig flutter into view. She was flying quite normally, so maybe she had just felt the spell rather than being forced by it. Mr. Eeylop would have known.

Harry had no parchment or pen, but his owl had come prepared. She had one of his biros and a slightly greasy paper napkin that had held a chocolate biscuit from Mrs. Temple a couple of days ago.

"You really are the smartest owl ever," he said appreciatively. She shook her tail at him as though to say, well, of course. He scratched out a few words, and sighed in relief as Hedwig took off into the night. The note was cryptic and short, but he was sure Zate would come through for him.

"It's okay now, Hermione," he told the girl. "A friend of mine is coming. He'll help us."

He hadn't expected a reply, but he turned in surprise when he heard a choked sob. She was looking at him, and for the first time since he had burst into her room she seemed to actually see him. Harry almost flinched away from her eyes. He knew what that look felt like from the inside, as though something essential had been ripped out of you that you'd never be able to replace. "Thanks," she said quietly.

[][][][][][]

Tonight definitely ranked on Zakarias Zate's mental list of top ten worst days ever, and for a ninety year old Dark wizard that was saying something. His assistant was gone, apparently vanished into thin air after some kind of episode that had left him gasping in pain and rolling around in the dirt. Lucius Malfoy had lost him during an apparition lesson.

The Malfoys had been frantic when they called him earlier in the evening, shouting that Hephaestus had had some kind of fit and apparated to an unknown location. Zate had been running around Knockturn Alley for the past couple of hours in a futile attempt to track down the boy. A number of other Dark wizards had been informed, and a more extensive search was being planned.

Zate had not initially been too worried. After all, a lot of young witches and wizards made a mess of their first apparition. Malfoy swore that the boy hadn't been splinched, and if no body parts were left behind then most of the potential danger was nullified. The general consensus among the limited group that was going in search of Hephaestus was that the boy had suffered a panic attack, brought on by the overexertion of trying to apparate for the first time, and had misapparated somewhere without being able to return.

This was stupid of course. Hephaestus wasn't the sort to have an attack of nerves over something as basic as apparating, and he wasn't prone to seizures as far as Zate knew. The apothecary was careful not to share his opinion with the others though. In fact, he encouraged them in the idea, saying that he had been letting the boy experiment with making some antivenins that were known to cause all kinds of gruesome neurological effects if improperly handled.

Narcissa Malfoy had tried to hex him when he told her. Apparently she had taken quite a liking to the boy. Zate shuddered. The Curse of Eternal Boils would have made him a very unhappy man for a very long time if Lucius hadn't managed to stop her. Still, he couldn't regret the lie. The mysterious "fit" quite likely had something to do with Hephaestus being Harry Potter, and he couldn't let that information get out.

No, Zate hadn't been too worried at first. At worst, he figured his troublesome assistant was lost in a jungle somewhere in Asia with a splitting headache. They'd find him eventually. But then Elvira Davan had burst into the apothecary screaming for Zate, and he had realized things were very wrong indeed.

The plump, middle-aged witch had apparently already tried to find Snape and Narcissa, who were sometimes sought by Dark wizards for their fair healing skills, but of course, both of them were in Knockturn to help with the search for Hephaestus. Elvira had come to Zate as a last resort, hoping for potions for her son, who was dying.

Snape had two calming draughts down the woman's throat before she'd made it past "Help!" and the whole story had come spilling out. The younger Davan boy was one of the newest Death Eater recruits, and his first assignment for his Lord and Master had apparently gone horribly wrong.

"It was s-s-supposed to be easy," Elvira choked. "Just some muggle house, and he p-p-promised he wouldn't g-go with the main group. 'J-just going to g-guard the p-p-perimeter, Mother,' he said."

Snape was stalking around the store grabbing ingredients off the shelves pell-mell as she spoke, fixing a makeshift healer's potions kit. Zate wondered if it was a little too heartless to keep a running tally of the cost of each item in his head.

"He c-c-can't really breathe," the woman wailed. "His chest. It's all broken up. C-crushed by a sp-spell."

"He needs to go to St. Mungo's," Snape muttered under his breath as he swept toward a shelf stocked with dittany. No one replied. The hospital was anything but a place of healing for a young man with the Dark Mark on his arm.

Supplies in hand, Snape and Narcissa were reaching for the floo powder when the woman stuttered out the most astonishing, for Zate at least, news of the night. "They, they t-told me it was him," she said. "It was Harry Potter."

While the others stared in shock, Zate felt like pounding his face into the counter. How in the name of Morgaine did the boy get himself into this kind of situation?

So now, Zate was pacing back and forth behind the counter waiting for the Malfoy men and Mrs. Temple to come back from their own searching while he wondered about Harry. When he got his hands on the boy he was going to sit on him for two or three years. Just until he developed enough sense to take care of himself.

Just as he was pondering the potential benefit of Draught of the Living Death for this scheme, a large Snowy Owl swooped into the store.

"How'd you get in here?" he demanded peevishly. "Door's not open."

The bird landed by the till and dropped a grimy napkin in front of him. He picked it up and read it, swearing under his breath.

I'm at the back door with company. Healing potion. Skelegrow. Polyjuice if you've got it. Extra robes.

Sorry,

HP

[][][][][][]

It was strange, Harry mused, how much his perceptions had changed in just a few short weeks. He opened his eyes only to see strips of dried flesh and strings of shriveled plant life dangling just inches above his nose. The hard wood of the table under his back was only a dull discomfort compared to the agony of his left arm and the constant burning throb in his face. The dimly-lit room smelled like blood and dust and herbs. Two months ago he would have feared he was in some kind of evil Dark wizard's torture chamber. Now, even before he could fully bring the memory of the last several hours to the front of his mind, he felt safe.

He sat up and squinted around him, careful not to jar his arm or touch the dried ingredients that hung from the ceiling. Zate's storage room was a pretty good place to be, all things considered. His memory of getting here was a little fuzzy. He recalled his relief at the apothecary's arrival. He had taken several potions, and then he had stumbled after the older Dark wizard on a zigzagging route through the least used sections of Knockturn alley. Hermione, in a too-large hooded robe, had clung to his side the entire way. She hadn't spoken since thanking him, but at least she seemed to be more aware of her surroundings than she had been.

He heard Zate's limping tread and looked toward the base of the stairs. "Up already are you?" the old man said as he stumped over to the table where Harry had been sleeping.

"Where's Hermione?" Harry asked.

"I took the girl to that brothel you call home. I have to admit it was an interesting experience. Never set foot in a place like that in all my days. It took me a fair bit of persuasion to get the owner woman to let her into your room, but I managed."

Harry groaned. "You left Hermione alone at the Doxy Closet? I'd better go get her. There's no telling what kind of trouble she'll get in." He started to get off the table only to find a hand against his chest holding him in place.

"Oh, no you don't!" said Zate. "I got rid of the girl so you and I could have a private conversation. I gave her some concentrated valerian before I left. Not as good as a sleeping draught, but with the way she looked I imagine that she'll still be out of it until mid-afternoon." The old apothecary glared. "Now," he said firmly. "Explain to me why you look like you got into a boxing match with a yeti, why young Davan is in critical condition, and why half the Dark wizards in Great Britain are mounting a search and rescue mission for you."

By the time Harry finished telling his story, Zate was pacing back and forth in front of him with a troubled look on his face. Harry honestly couldn't blame him. The only explanation he could offer was really very simple, but it sounded...well...insane. While he waited for Zate to respond he reviewed it in his head. How to Wreak Havoc in Five Easy Steps, by Harry Potter: Become a Dark Wizard, Learn to Apparate, Apparate into the Middle of a High Profile Death Eater Torture Session, Exit via Second Story Window, Nearly Kill Fellow Dark Wizard while Fleeing.

After a few more minutes, Harry decided to ask the question that had been weighing on his mind ever since he woke up. He had been expecting yelling and accusations from Zate, not this eerie silence. "Is Davan going to be alright?" he asked, surprised at the slight tremor in his own voice. Since when did he care about Davan? "I mean...he's not going to die is he?"

Zate shook his head. "It looks like he'll pull through, but it was touch and go there for awhile. A crushed chest cavity, a collapsed lung. Snape has been coming back every couple of hours to pillage the best of my stock without so much as a thank you."

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I mean, I didn't know it was him. Not until it was over, and I wouldn't have..."

The apothecary snorted. "Wouldn't have cast a shield spell? Really? Then you'd have been the one half dead, and we would have had more trouble than you can possibly imagine."

"Yeah, but, he's a Dark wizard. I shouldn't," he shrugged. "I just shouldn't have."

"Indeed. If either of you had known with whom you were fighting it would be a different situation, but you didn't. It's fortunate in a way. There's no telling what the two of you would have done to each other in the heat of the moment. At least ignorance protected you. You wouldn't like the consequences if the Dark Magic decided to punish you for knowingly attacking a brother wizard, Hephaestus."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Right," he said. "About the magic..."

Zate shot him an irritated glance. "I don't know," he said. "I've never heard of anything exactly like you experienced. Tell me again."

"I was running toward the house. I was panicking, not thinking about the consequences, and then it was like I hit an invisible wall. I knew I couldn't take another step forward, but when I calmed down and started thinking through things, changing my appearance, I could move again." He hesitated, then asked, "That's not normal right?"

"No," Zate said bluntly. "Sometimes, experienced Dark wizards will get...impressions... of what they ought to do in a given situation, as though the magic itself is nudging us in the right direction." He paused and looked at his assistant critically. "I sometimes wonder if I might have experienced that with you," he admitted. "By all reasoning, it was crazy to try to teach Harry Potter how to be a Dark wizard, but I decided to do it anyway."

"This wasn't exactly a suggestion though was it?" Harry asked. "It was more like something was forcing me to calm down and think about what I was doing. It creeps me out just to remember it."

The older wizard shook his head. "I just don't know, boy. Maybe it happened because you've got a particularly strong connection to the magic, or maybe the consequences of your actions were going to be so dire for the Dark community that the magic had to respond."

Harry stared at him. Was Zate saying what he thought he was saying? "It could do that?" he blurted out. "I mean, magic itself can, like, make the decision that some wizard's being an idiot and stop him?"

Zate looked surprised at the suggestion. He shook his head. "No, no, no. We Dark wizards give ourselves over to magic, but it's not as though it controls us without our consent. But I imagine...well, the first priority of anything remotely sentient is self-preservation, so maybe... Imagine what could have happened if you had burst into that house without taking a moment to change your appearance."

Harry hadn't really thought about it in depth before, but he did as Zate asked. What if someone who was obviously a Dark wizard had run into the room to rescue Hermione? Weren't some of the people with Voldemort, other than Davan, Dark wizards as well as Death Eaters? He couldn't remember their faces. He'd been so focused on Hermione. Even Bellatrix...did she have a mark on her face or not? They would have had to fight each other or fight the Death Eaters or...well, something. Because he doubted that Voldemort would have been in the mood for his minions to give him excuses about how they couldn't attack the crazy teenager who was breaking up their fun because he was a Dark wizard.

No matter what happened, after it was all over someone would have realized that Hephaestus Peverell was Harry Potter. Why else would he risk his life to save a muggleborn girl? He couldn't imagine what would happen then. Zate seemed to think that the knowledge would tear the community apart from the inside out, at least at this early stage.

"It would have been bad," he said finally. "I'm not sure how bad, but it wouldn't have gone well at all."

Zate rolled his eyes.

Harry and Zate spent the last part of the morning trying to make it look as though nothing worse had happened to him than a bad apparition. The skelegrow had fixed up his arm well enough to pass a physical inspection, though it still ached fiercely, but his face proved more problematic. "It looks like you tried to skin yourself," Zate noted as he dabbed yet another stinging, foul-smelling paste on the wound.

They didn't want any scarring to be visible, because it wasn't exactly an easily explainable wound. Eventually the apothecary admitted defeat and disappeared upstairs for a long time. When he returned, he was carrying the tiniest glass vial Harry had ever seen. It seemed to glow with an inner light. It looked vaguely familiar, and as Zate administered a single drop to the side of his face he realized. "Phoenix tears," he said.

"You owe me," the apothecary replied with an even expression. "Forever."

After that, Zate gave him an unregistered portkey and sent him off with instructions to find his own way back in "the most believable manner possible." After landing on top of a hill somewhere in the countryside, Harry had to walk a couple of kilometers before finding a house. Then he tried to explain to the very confused muggle owners that some of his mates had thought it would be a brilliant prank to abandon him in the middle of nowhere dressed in strange, dirty robes.

He wasn't even close to London, and he certainly didn't have enough money to get back. The muggle couple let him use their phone "to call his parents", but when he claimed that his parents weren't answering, they wanted to call the police to resolve the matter. Harry escaped while they were doing just that, then he sat down in the middle of a pasture to sulk for awhile. What rankled most, of course, was the fact that he knew how to apparate now but couldn't do it because, as Zate said, if he had really thrown himself into a seizure and apparated to the middle of nowhere the first time he wouldn't be keen to try again.

Feeling stupid but unable to think of another option, Harry finally used his library portkey in hopes that it would eventually occur to someone to come looking for him there. He sat on the library steps for three and a half hours before Draco appeared. Feeling oddly resentful, he wrote out his location for the other wizard, and fifteen minutes later an extremely relieved Lucius Malfoy arrived to apparate him back to civilization.

[][][][][][]

The purpling light of late afternoon bathed the shops around Harry in an eerie glow as he hurried down the lane toward the Doxy Closet. It had taken him awhile to get away from the Malfoys, and he suspected that if most of the Dark wizards were not waiting with bated breath for news of Davan he would have had a much harder time escaping from their coddling. On any other day, he admitted grudgingly to himself, he might have enjoyed the concern, but Hermione Granger was alone in a brothel in Knockturn Alley the night after her parents had been tortured to death by Death Eaters.

Harry was afraid for her and for their friendship, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to thank the Malfoy family for being so considerate of him or hex them all into bloody puddles of goo for being the kind of people who could support Voldemort, even if they hadn't been at the Grangers' house. He wasn't sure if he was sorry he'd almost killed Davan or if he was sorry he hadn't finished the job. It was just a new facet of the same old problem, and he was so very sick of dealing with it.

Business was just picking up at the Doxy Closet when he made it, so Cora only had time to shoot him an exasperated glare and point upstairs. He waved in acknowledgement. He would have to buy Hermione a room or, well, something. His deal with Cora involved free room and board for as long as he helped out with fixing the place up; it didn't include him bringing people to live with him.

He greeted Bette on the way up the stairs, and ignored her teasing comments about having to bring his own girl to the Doxy Closet. Finally, much too late and much too soon, he stood outside of his door and knocked. When there was no reply, he unlocked it and entered. He could hear the shower running, and from the amount of steam that filled his room she'd been in there for quite a long time. Wizard architects, or at least the ones who built this inn, didn't see the need for proper ventilation when an air drying charm after the fact would accomplish the same thing.

Harry stepped over to his window and opened it to let the damp out, pausing for a moment to look out on the street coming to life in the approaching darkness. He saw a couple of food vendors setting up their stands farther down the lane, and his stomach reminded him loudly that it had been a long time since his last meal. It was oddly comforting to know that even when everything fell apart, the basic needs of life still asserted themselves.

He looked toward his bathroom. Did she even realize that he had come into the room? He walked over to the door, careful not to inadvertently peek into the tiny space. "Hermione?" he called. "I'm back. Are you alright?"

When no reply was immediately forthcoming, Harry's mind flashed to all the muggle films he'd seen where depressed girls killed themselves in the shower. Oh, God, how could he have left her alone? He took a deep breath. "Hermione?" he asked much more loudly.

He heard the shower shut off, and Hermione's voice, higher than usual, filled the room. "Who's there?" she demanded. "You'd better leave. I've got a wand!"

Harry gaped for a moment, then groaned in realization. Of course she wouldn't recognize his voice. "It's me," he said. "Harry. I'm disguised, so I don't sound like myself."

There was a brief silence, then, "What is the name of the only Cerberus you've ever met?"

He smiled at the question. "Fluffy," he said, "though it wasn't the most accurate description."

"Harry?"

"The one and only."

"Give me just a minute to get dressed," she said. "I'll be right out."

Harry went and sat on the edge of his bed, looking toward the window. He heard Hermione rummaging around in the bathroom. He had no idea what the next few hours would be like. They would have to talk about last night, surely, but there was so much else. He kept telling himself that he needed to think of some way to help the conversation along while causing the least amount of pain possible, but he couldn't seem to tear his mind from the cold reality of the situation. Hermione, he kept thinking, your parents are dead, and there's nothing we can do to fix it. Now what?

"Where have you been all day?" Her voice came from just behind him, and he turned to see her standing next to his wardrobe. She was wearing one of the band tees that Robin had bought him and her shorts from last night. Her normally bushy hair was plastered to her scalp from her shower and pulled back in a tight knot. Her face was puffy, from crying probably. "Where were you?" she asked again.

So they were going to talk about him? Okay. He could do that. "I was pretty banged up," he said. "Zate, that old man who brought you here, helped heal me. And then," he paused. I had to hang out with the Malfoys for awhile, because, you know, they worry about me, he thought. That wouldn't go over well. "The people I was with when I realized you were in trouble were panicking, because I disapparated kind of suddenly, so I had to let them know I was alright."

She nodded as if she understood, but he had a feeling she was acting more out of habit than anything else. "You look really different, Harry," she said.

How to respond to that? "Yeah, I know." He attempted a reassuring smile, but it felt strained. "I'm me though. I swear." He wondered how true that was, but there really wasn't much else to say. She didn't say anything else. The tension was a crushing presence in the room. "Hermione," he started to say, but she cut him off in an almost panicked voice.

"So you've learned how to apparate? When did that happen?"

Harry blinked in confusion at the change of subject. "Well, yeah I guess. I've only apparated twice though. I was learning how last night when I...well, when I had a vision about you." He paused in alarm as a single, gulping sort of sob escaped from Hermione. When she didn't burst into tears, he cautiously decided to continue. "I was so scared I just...well, you know me. It's jump in head first when there's an emergency, so I apparated." She didn't reply, and Harry felt his chest tightening with the need to make her behave in some way he could actually respond to. He thought he might understand better if she would cry or scream or accuse him of being the cause of all her problems.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there in time," he said after the silence became too much for him. "I tried. I really did. I just wasn't fast enough."

Hermione lost control. With a gut-wrenching cry, she threw herself at him. At first she just clung to him, sobbing all over his shirt and gasping out the whole gruesome story of her parents' deaths while she fought for breath. Harry was as frozen as a statue for about a minute, paralyzed with his own inadequacy, then he cautiously wrapped one arm around her and patted her on the back.

Just as he was starting to feel as though he could deal with a weeping Hermione, it was as though some emotional switch got flipped from grief to rage, and she started hitting him. Sort of. She didn't punch him in the face, but she balled her hands into fists and pounded repeatedly on his shoulders while she choked out almost incoherent accusations. This was his fault and she hated him and she wished she had never heard of Hogwarts and magic and she hated him and she hated Dumbledore and whydidn'thesaveherdadhewasrightthere.

Harry couldn't even feel the bruises forming on his collar bones, and he didn't try to rise to his own defense. He knew this reaction. He understood it. This was what it looked like, felt like, when you watched someone you loved die.

Much later, after Hermione had worn herself completely out, he tucked her into his bed and turned off the lights. He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. The mark on his cheek gleamed a familiar blue, and his Peverell-sharp eyes could pick out every detail. For the first time, his new reflection was tainted. It was overshadowed with a promise of unavoidable future pain.

Without even bothering to take his clothes off, Harry stepped into the shower and turned on the water. He sat down in the cramped space, pressed his back against the hard tile, and let the hot water pound down on top of him. He wondered if Hermione had been sitting like this for hours before he made it back to the room. He wondered if she had never wanted to stop.


	26. Making Strangers, Making Friends

Chapter 26: Making Strangers, Making Friends

Fear makes strangers of people who would be friends. – Shirley MacLaine

Harry had definitely had better mornings than the one he was facing right now. He had turned off the shower at some point last night, but he hadn't bothered to move to a more comfortable location. He woke up shivering in wet clothes with his whole body feeling like one giant cramp. A glance in the mirror revealed that he looked almost as bad as Seamus Finnegan usually did the morning after a quidditch victory, and he didn't even have the excuse of alcohol.

After checking to make sure that Hermione was still sleeping, he flung off his wet things and slipped into drier clothing. It was 6 AM, and he was starving. He jotted a quick note just in case Hermione woke up while he was awake, then he headed downstairs in hopes of breakfast.

Cora and the other ladies were all very curious about his mysterious guest, and Harry found himself dodging increasingly awkward questions as he shoveled scrambled eggs into his mouth. No, she wasn't a girlfriend, just a very close friend. More like a sister. No, he didn't know how long she would be there. Yes, he would pay for an extra room if she stayed another night. Her name? Errr…it was Jean.

Feeling frazzled, he left breakfast much earlier than he had intended. A quick peek in his room revealed a still-sleeping Hermione. He put a stack of toast on his desk with yet another note, and then he set off to run some errands, hoping that a walk would clear his head. He had forgotten how devoid of life Knockturn could be in daylight, so the distractions he had been hoping for were largely absent. He did manage to catch Robin in her shop. She'd been working overtime to make improvements to the store in time for the Greengrass family's visit in just under a month. She was only slightly less manic than she had been, but she was willing enough to help him pick out some robes for Hermione.

"So why does this girl not have any of her own clothes?" the seamstress asked as she looked critically at a set of hot pink robes before tossing them aside.

"I told you. She had some pretty serious family trouble, and there wasn't any time for her to pack her things," he said, shooting her a glare.

She frowned at him. "There's no need to be so touchy, HP. I was just curious."

"I know. I'm sorry." He sighed. "It's been a rough couple of days."

She swept her braids over one shoulder. "No problem. But next time at least get her size okay? Because I can't do much with your estimations. From the way you describe her, she's more or less 'girl-sized' with 'normal boobs and stuff.'"

Harry flushed. It had been extremely awkward to try to describe Hermione's body shape to the seamstress. It wasn't as though he'd ever considered it much before. So he found himself making on the spot comparisons to Robin herself, which amused the witch to no end.

Robin gave him two sets of secondhand witch's robes that were in fairly good condition and advised him to let the witch in question pick out the rest of her own clothes. Thanking her, he headed back toward the Doxy Closet.

[][][][][][]

Hermione was awake when he made it back. Harry was relieved to see that her eyes were no longer red and swollen and she had eaten the toast he left. He wasn't so relieved to see what she had found to entertain herself in his absence. He mentally cursed himself for being a fool. Hermione had been reading, of course, and few of the many books laying around Harry's room were the sort that the savior of the wizarding world ought to be reading in his free time.

The look in his friend's eyes was calculating, and Harry cleared his throat a bit nervously. "I bought you some robes," he said. "You can't really leave the room dressed in muggle clothes around here, and well... I hope they fit."

He handed them to her, and she threw the plain blue one on over her clothes. She looked down at herself. "They're okay," she said. "A lot better than nothing. Thank you, Harry."

He shrugged. "You're always looking out for me. It's about time I returned the favor." He took a deep breath and forced his face to remain calm. "So, you've been reading my books."

She knew it wasn't a question. "Books? It's more like a mini-library in here. It looks like you've been busy this summer. Why the sudden interest in potions?"

Potions? Surely she had noticed more than that. It wasn't like Hermione to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room, though. "It's not really potions so much as ingredients, though I've done a bit of brewing. I've got a summer job working for Zate. He's an apothecary."

She wrinkled her nose, and Harry thought he saw a hint of amusement in her smile. "You're working for an apothecary? Willingly?"

"Hey! It's not so bad. I'm learning loads without Snape breathing down my neck."

"Well, at least you'll be ready for the NEWT class if you get in. That'll be nice for a change." They looked at each other for a moment, not saying anything, then Hermione spoke again. "Harry, those other books..."

"What about them?" he asked, making a point to meet her eyes. He had never wanted to have this conversation with her, with anyone really, but he wasn't going to try to distance himself from the truth when it was so blindingly obvious.

Hermione stared resolutely at a spot just beyond him as she continued. "I think you should be more careful about keeping them out of sight. I know you just want to learn more about Vol - You-Know-Who and how he thinks, but other people might not understand."

Harry felt as though the floor had fallen out from underneath him. He scanned the titles laid out over the desk and the bed. Everything from Basic Rituals to To Be Dark to the book of fairy tales that Mrs. Temple had assigned. There was no way she really thought he was reading all of this to understand Voldemort. He looked at her face, and saw that her jaw was trembling and her eyes were still glued to the wall behind him.

With a flash of insight that was quite unlike him, he understood that he was being given an out. Hermione Granger was asking him to lie to her, to tell her that this was one time when logic didn't apply, and stupid and reckless though it was, Harry found that he couldn't lie to her about this, not even if she wanted him to.

"Sit down, Hermione," he said softly. "Let me tell you about my summer."

He talked until his throat hurt, and he told her everything. He had not meant to be quite so honest. He was horrified with himself even as he heard himself pouring out the whole story. The Malfoys, Zate, Mrs. Temple, Davan - this was an unforgivable betrayal of their trust, but once he had begun telling her he couldn't stop. She was looking down at her lap while he talked, and when he finished, it was a long time before she looked up.

"What do you expect me to say?" she asked, her voice quiet but harsh. "That it's okay? That you can just become everything we've fought against, and I'll look the other way?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I never knew what I was fighting for or against," he said firmly. "Before this summer, I didn't understand anything. And, I don't expect anything from you, Hermione. I just...I had to tell you the truth."

She stood up and stepped purposefully toward the door. He moved to block her path, and she stared at him as though she was seeing a demon. "What are you going to do?" she demanded. "Hex me? I don't have a wand you know; I was lying last night. They took it from me."

He felt like throwing up. "Hermione, no. How could you think that? I wouldn't...not ever." He shook his head. "I just can't let you leave if you're going to go straight to Dumbledore and tell him about us. This wasn't all my secret to share. I shouldn't have... You can't ever tell anyone about Zate or Mrs. Temple or even the Malfoys, Hermione. They'd be killed."

"What do you want me to do? Swear an unbreakable vow?"

"No, you have to have three wizards for that," Harry replied automatically, remembering reading about it.

Hermione's face was grim. "Wow. You really have changed, Harry. At least you've finally gotten interested in your education." She turned on her heel and walked over to a stack of books on the desk. "Surely these books are good for something," she said as she started flipping through the pages of Basic Rituals.

Harry watched, almost afraid to interrupt, as she scanned the book for nearly ten minutes before walking back over and handing it to him. "Here you are then," she said as she passed it to him. She crossed her arms over her chest. "A nice ritual for you to make sure I can't tattle on your new friends."

He looked down at the page she had marked with a sinking feeling. It was called Justina's Promise. He hadn't made it this far into the book, but the instructions were simple enough. "A real gem isn't it?" Hermione said sarcastically. "Even better than the unbreakable vow. With that one at least you have the option of breaking the vow and accepting the consequences. This one won't even let you do that much."

Harry thought he saw a challenge in her eyes. She didn't think he would really go through with it. He lifted his wand. "Accio ritual knives," he said, careful not to put too much into it. He didn't want to be skewered.

It took all of fifteen minutes. Hermione stared at him in horror the whole time, but she didn't even flinch when he cut the marks on her palms. When it was over, he stepped away from the door to let her know she could leave.

"Why didn't you make yourself part of the agreement?" she asked, chewing on her lower lip. "You only made me promise to keep quiet about the others."

"I gave you my secret, Hermione," he told her wearily. "I didn't have any right to give you theirs." He looked at her, feeling like there was a chasm between them even though she was only feet away. "Remember to stay out of sight until you get to Diagon Alley," he reminded her. "It's not crowded out there in the day time, but disillusion yourself anyway."

She looked like she was blinking back tears. "I don't even know who you are anymore," she said.

The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

******* Hermione's Point of View *******

No. 12 Grimmauld Place was well within walking distance of The Leaky Cauldron, but Hermione had lost her way a couple of times, and she hadn't been in much of a hurry to begin with. It was mid-afternoon by the time she found herself standing in the square across from the Order of the Phoenix's former headquarters. They had abandoned it for awhile after Sirius Black's death, but she was fairly certain from Ron's letters that it was now in use again as a meeting place for those involved in the search for Harry.

She sat down on a bench and looked unseeingly toward her intended destination. Someone would be there, she was sure. They would know by now what had happened to her family, and if Snape was any sort of spy at all then they would also know that she had escaped with Harry's help. Of course, Snape was a Dark wizard, a real one, though the distinction between "real Dark wizards" and "nasty, ill-tempered Slytherins" had been nebulous in her mind before this morning. Maybe Snape didn't tell the Order much after all.

They would take her in, and she had no doubt that Molly Weasley would have her situated in front of a loaded dinner table within an hour or two. It would be bright and safe and as normal as anything could be anymore. The Death Eaters wouldn't be able to reach her, and the Order members would fight to the death to protect her. She couldn't really ask for more at this point.

They would ask her what had happened. Dumbledore would question her. She wouldn't be able to tell them about Snape or the Malfoys or any of those other people she had never heard of before, but that wouldn't matter. They would only want to know about Harry Potter anyway, and she could tell them all about him, anything she wanted. She could march in there and destroy all of their hopes in a matter of minutes.

That had been her original plan when she had set out this morning, because they needed to know the truth didn't they? Harry was no light wizard, and really, the Order should know that the boy they were trying to protect was already far out of their reach. How could he have betrayed them like this?

Right and wrong had been very clear in her mind when she left Harry this morning, but now, sitting here on this bench, everything was muzzy. Stupid secondhand robes. Why hadn't she just ditched them when she made it back out into the muggle world? If she had, then she would have been able to see things in black and white for a little longer, but she had carried them rolled up under her arm all this way.

She had stumbled as she entered the square and the robes had fallen to the ground and they had jingled. She had looked through them for the source of the noise, and that was when all of her plans had fallen apart. Harry Potter was the kind of person who would slip ten galleons into the pocket of your robes without telling you. He was the kind of person who would run into a roomful of Death Eaters to save you or let you use him as a punching bag and a handkerchief at the same time. She couldn't decide what to do now, because if Harry Potter the Dark wizard was the same as the eleven-year-old Harry who had saved a bushy haired know-it-all from a Mountain Troll, then that changed everything.

She looked toward the spot where Grimmauld Place was squished invisibly between Numbers 11 and 13, then she stood up and turned back the way she had come.

[][][][][][][]

Zate wasn't speaking to Harry, and quite frankly Harry couldn't blame him. Right after Hermione had left, he had packed up his belongings and told Cora that he most likely wouldn't be back at the Doxy Closet this summer. There was no doubt in his mind that Hermione had left him with every intention of running straight to Dumbledore. His life was effectively over. Zate had been appalled when he had showed up at the apothecary around lunchtime with all of his worldly possessions in tow. Dark wizards did not reveal themselves to anyone, especially not junior Order of the Phoenix members.

They had had their first real fight right there in the store. Well, it hadn't been much of a fight, because Harry agreed with Zate, but the older Dark wizard had managed to scream himself hoarse before it had ended. Harry had explained the ritual that would keep the rest of the community safe, but really there wasn't anything to say in his defense. He was now living in Zate's supply basement for the foreseeable future.

"Bring up the niffler bile," came the shout from upstairs. Harry sighed. Zate had been calling for one ingredient at a time all night long in order to cause him the most inconvenience possible. He would trudge up there, nasty potions ingredient in hand, and then be sent back down to the basement to "dust." Dusting was a completely useless activity in an apothecary.

The jar of bile was just as leaky as he remembered from his first night doing inventory. Living amongst so many ingredients was going to guarantee that he would never have a romantic relationship for the rest of his life, he thought gloomily. The smells would probably become permanently attached to his skin and hair. He would also be as pale as a mole person.

He set the jar on the counter next to the till and looked around for Zate. He must have gone back into his little office. It was a quiet night, and they'd had hardly any customers. He turned to head back down the stairs when he heard the shop bell jingle. Zate emerged from his office to see who had come in, and they both looked toward the witch. She wore the thick balaclava that hags favored.

"Go back to your dusting," Zate muttered grumpily without looking at him.

Harry nodded, but he didn't turn to go. The hag was wearing very familiar blue robes. "Hermione?" he asked in disbelief.

She pulled off the balaclava and smiled weakly at him. "So," she said. "You're a Dark wizard. I can deal with that."

"Hermione?" he said again, still too shocked to understand what she was doing there.

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, you sound like a parrot." She looked around the shop timidly. "Umm...it's a very nice place you've got here, Mr. Zate. I don't suppose you're still looking for assistants are you? I'll have to find something to do with myself for the rest of the summer."

Harry half ran, half stumbled across the store to her. He caught her up in a hug that would have been embarrassingly desperate in any other situation. "You came back," he whispered as she clung to him just as tightly.

She pulled back, and her smile was strong this time. "How could I not?" she asked. She held a small bag out to him, and he looked inside.

"Why are you giving me a bag full of makeup?" he asked, bewildered.

"It's theatrical grade concealer," she said. "I exchanged the galleons you left in my pocket for pounds and bought it. I imagine it will come in useful at school."

He raised his eyebrows questioningly at her, and she sighed. "Harry Potter," she said. "You may be a Dark wizard, but you're my best friend, and if you think I'm going to Hogwarts without you this year then you're mad." She set her jaw and glared at both him and Zate. "Even if I have to wake you up at 4 AM and spray paint your head every morning, we're going to find a way to cover up that mark on your face."

Harry couldn't help himself. He hugged her again. Zate was sputtering incoherently behind him, but he wasn't worried about the old apothecary's temper at the moment.


	27. Time Passes

Chapter 27: Time Passes

The air in the room was so charged with energy that there was actually a taste to it, a distinct heat on his tongue and in the back of his throat. It was somehow metallic and alive at the same time, Harry thought. His flesh seemed to ripple faintly, shivering without cold or discomfort, and the hair on his arms was standing on end. He walked toward the center of the large room, the soft squeaks of his trainers against the polished wood floor almost unnoticeable compared to the sharp clicks of the dress boots the others wore.

"Mid to high range spells every ten seconds. Eight meters. Five minutes." Lucius Malfoy's voice echoed through the room, and the murmurs of the other students, standing off to the side behind several layers of protective shielding, ceased immediately. Malfoy had made it clear from the beginning that he would only tolerate the most serious-minded pupils for dueling instruction. "Begin, Mr. Peverell."

Harry took a deep breath, set his stance one foot slightly in front of the other as he'd been taught, and focused on the target. The pulsing black light was no bigger than a sheet of parchment today, and if he missed, he would blast holes in the plastered walls of Malfoy Manor's grand ballroom. Narcissa would be furious.

He began to cast, and was relieved when the spells fell smoothly from his tongue and bolts of light blasted the target one after the other. Some nights it was hard to find the rhythm. Casting spells in succession like this – it was nothing like what they learned at Hogwarts. He had never thought about it before, but he was used to casting the same spell every minute or so, taking turns with whoever he was working with in Charms or Transfiguration, until he had mastered it. When Malfoy had demanded on his first night that he cast offensive spells at ten second intervals for three minutes at a target fifteen feet away, Harry had stumbled over his words and his own feet, and his spells had been all over the place. The Malfoy house elves had apparently spent a full day repairing an antique crystal chandelier that had been hit with a ricocheting blasting hex.

Harry had been horrified by his own ineptitude. He knew it was partially nerves that had resulted in such a poor performance, but that really wasn't much of an excuse. He hadn't wanted to learn dueling from Lucius Malfoy, but when Davan recovered from his wounds and began attending their nightly history lessons again, Harry had been confronted with his fresh memory of the battle outside Hermione's house and with the fact that the young man was a better duelist than he was. Harry had "won" of course, but it was mostly a matter of luck. His blasting hex had been badly timed, and his plague hex had missed Davan completely. Davan, dueling a running, disillusioned opponent in the dark, had landed the bone shattering spell dead on target, not once, but twice. If Harry hadn't had the good reflexes to get the reflective shield in place, he would have been pulverized. He had realized with chagrin that he couldn't afford to refuse instruction in dueling, even if Lucius Malfoy wasn't his ideal teacher.

After history that night, he had lingered behind. The others were all congratulating Davan on his narrow escape from death and begging for details about his duel. Everyone had heard that he had fought Harry Potter, and they wanted a blow-by-blow account. Davan had grudgingly provided one, and after Zabini and Nott had departed he added in an undertone, "Draco, we've got to ask your father to teach us spells that will penetrate a reflective shield. I know that's what Potter cast. If it had been anything else my spell would have landed. Ossus frendo is one of my best."

Draco and the others had raised their eyebrows doubtfully, but before they could comment Lucius had emerged from his study with a faintly amused look on his face. "Potter cast a successful Specule shield, you say? I find that highly unlikely."

Davan's lips thinned, and he shook his dark brown hair out of his eyes with a mulish expression on his face. "The spell bounced back at full power, sir. I know it had to be a reflective shield."

"It could have been a number of other shields, Davan," Mulciber told his friend in his ponderous, gravelly voice. Mulciber was of the same ogreish build as Crabbe and Goyle, but Harry had noticed a keen intelligence in his eyes that his appearance belied. "There are non-Dark spells that will reflect powerful hexes, especially if they're not precisely on target."

"It wasn't one of those," Davan snapped irritably. "I've thought and thought and thought about it. It reflected the spell perfectly. Potter stumbled backwards, like he was personally attached to the casting, and the spell didn't lose any power on the rebound." He winced and rubbed his chest as though remembering the crushing force of his own spell. "It was a textbook reflective shield. I'd swear it."

The others all gave him sympathetic looks, but Mulciber muttered under his breath, "That's a straight up Dark spell that is. No way a Potter cast it."

"Well, Potter is the sort to wear his heart on his sleeve," Draco said thoughtfully. "Maybe he could have emotionally bridged to ambient magic, and then if the atmospheric presence was dense enough…" he trailed off as the others all rolled their eyes. "What?" he said. "I was just speculating."

"You sound like you swallowed a text on spell theory," Carrow replied in an exasperated voice. "That kind of thing doesn't happen in real duels."

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but his father cut him off. "This discussion is rather pointless, all things considered," he said. "We will study reflective shields and spells that can penetrate them tonight. It is as good a subject as any other." He turned to the corner where Harry was trying to stay out of sight. "Now, Mr. Peverell, if you are quite finished eavesdropping, shouldn't you be at your job?"

Harry fought back an embarrassed groan at being caught. "Sorry," he said. "I was just wondering if I could stay tonight?"

Draco smiled with delight, and turned to his father expectantly. Mulciber, Davan, and Carrow looked annoyed at this intrusion into their routine. Lucius had an expression of mingled frustration and interest. He sighed, "Come along, then. Let's see how far we have to go with you."

That had been two, almost two and a half, weeks ago. He had worked tirelessly each night since then to improve himself. The realization that without his remarkable good luck he wouldn't withstand a one on one duel with even the least experienced of Death Eaters was shockingly harsh. He had thought he was skilled, strong. Leading the DA last year had made him feel confident that even if he was not a great fighter, he was a competent one. Now he knew otherwise.

When he was not handicapped by Bellatrix's insanity and the need to obtain a fragile ball of spun crystal without breaking it, Lucius Malfoy could bounce Harry around the room like a sack of potatoes without even breaking a sweat, and he had done it too, more than once. That sense of helplessness was the most horrible, frankly terrifying experience Harry had had in a long while. It scared him into becoming more driven than he ever had in his life, and now he was seeing the fruits of his labors.

Inflammo tergum, suere labrum, pestis, congelo, quasso - the spells (some Dark, some merely nasty, some neutral but useful) poured from him one after another. Some felt like bursts of raw energy, others were silky threads of magic that slipped from his wand like whispers. Different colored spell light battered the magical target steadily, and sometimes there was no light, merely a sense of weight in the atmosphere or a rush of wind. Harry spent any spare moment he had at Zate's working on this. He charmed lists of spells to recite themselves to him while he shelved ingredients, and he began to read his books while he watched the till. Mors amplector, somnium atrox, lamenta aeternus, lamnia ventus. He paid special attention to the others when they went through this exercise, trying to remember spells that he could add to his own steadily growing repertoire.

Harry felt his mental reserves running dry as he watched the bold red numbers of the charmed timer that hovered over the target. He was almost at five minutes, but he was running out of new spells. He couldn't repeat one he'd already done before. They could never repeat a spell in this particular exercise. Malfoy had pointed out that an opponent had a very difficult time countering you if you cast a different sort of hex or curse every time.

With ten seconds left, Harry cast an ex fenestra and stopped, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and drained. His vision, focused to a tunnel on his distant target, seemed to swim for a moment before he could take in everything around him again. He turned to face the others, noting the coolly approving look that Lucius Malfoy wore as he surveyed his newest pupil.

"Well done, Mr. Peverell," he said with a nod. "You are much improved."

Harry made his way back to join the group as Malfoy called out, "Mulciber, the same range and time, but five second intervals if you please." Harry both hated and loved the warmth of the elation that filled him at Lucius Malfoy's approval and the claps on the back and quiet congratulations of his classmates. Mulciber began to incant his spells, and Harry closed his eyes, savoring the feel of the magics that swirled throughout the room, a chaos of impressions, music made tangible.

Hermione [] [] [] [] [] [] Hermione

Hermione sometimes wondered if Harry even realized how much he had changed since last term. In many ways he was the same old Harry; he still had a bit of a hero complex, was still unfailingly generous, and he still made impulsive decisions that had Hermione's head spinning with worry and confusion. In other ways, though, he was a completely different person. He seemed much more at peace than he ever had before. He smiled easily and laughed often. He was more confident as well, making no apologies for his ideas and sharing them with her freely. Finally, and most surprisingly in Hermione's opinion, Harry had developed an almost childlike curiosity about magic.

Hermione well remembered the feeling of wonder that had been hers throughout her first weeks at Hogwarts. Magic had been the most magnificent and fascinating thing in the world, and she literally couldn't wait to attend class and explore the castle. It had all seemed like something out of a grand fairy tale to her. She thought back to her first year fondly. The older Gryffindor students, particularly the muggleborns, had known that she would feel this way. They remembered it themselves, and they went out of their way to show the firsties who were new to the idea of magic all the best that it had to offer.

That she was unpopular made little difference to the older years. They had passed her a hundred kinds of wizarding candy over the course of the year, just to have a laugh at her expression when she started to float or spewed steam from her ears. Someone had shown her how to work a wizarding camera; someone else had given her a list of helpful study spells. Even her dorm mates, who had disliked her most of the time, had enjoyed showing her beauty charms and magical nail polish. Most of the teachers had been considerate of her newness as well. McGonagall had taken her and Dean Thomas aside after transfiguration one day and walked them from office to office, introducing them to all the professors they hadn't met yet. The other teachers had happily explained their subjects to the muggleborn students; Hermione had known since the middle of her first year that she would love to sign up for classes in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.

She had never had cause to wonder before, but now, after watching Harry approach life in Knockturn Alley as though it were the most fascinating experience in the world, she realized that maybe his first year hadn't been at all like hers. Harry was raised by the Dursleys, and he had not known any more about magic than she had when entering first year. So why hadn't McGonagall introduced him to the other teachers as well? Why had she never noticed older years feeding a young Harry Potter fizzing whizbees or cockroach clusters for a laugh? It had always frustrated Hermione that her friends couldn't be bothered to cast the everyday charms that would keep their shoes tied and prevent their robes from wrinkling. She knew Ron was just that lazy, but now she had to wonder if no one had ever thought to teach Harry those things. He had defeated the most powerful dark…well, evil at any rate…wizard in the world at the age of one. Was it possible that people just didn't realize that he needed an introduction to the wizarding world as much as any other witch or wizard raised by muggles?

When she realized this, Hermione became fiercely glad that Harry was finally having a chance at being introduced to magic anew, even if it was Dark magic in particular rather than anything with which she was familiar. From what she had seen, none of the Dark wizards expected Hephaestus Peverell to know anything about their way of life and their type of magic, and he had even told them, or the Malfoys at least, that he was raised by muggles. She had watched Zate humor his assistant's interest by answering questions about everything from potions ingredients to funeral rituals. And Harry was using more magic than she had ever seen him use in his life.

It was funny that she'd never really pondered it before now, but there seemed to be two types of wizards in the world. There were those who used magic occasionally, as a useful tool when some other method wouldn't suffice to get a job done, and there were those who used magic for everything. Draco Malfoy was one of the latter she knew. She had watched him in class before and mentally scoffed at what she saw as a perfectly ridiculous overuse of magic. The obnoxious Slytherin used spells for everything. From the shine on his shoes to the permanently untangled state of his hair, every aspect of his outward appearance was influenced by charms. It was terribly vain really, but no worse, she grudgingly admitted, than some of the extravagant lengths that she had seen her dorm mates go to on a daily basis.

Malfoy magicked more than just his clothes though. He cast lightening charms on his book bag at the end of each class; a charmed highlighter marked his books for him; a bespelled quill took notes when he was busy paying attention to the lecture or doing a practical exercise. And all of that was just in first year. As Harry's and Ron's friend, Hermione had paid more attention to Malfoy over the years than she would normally have liked, and as they had gotten older, Malfoy had started using more magic on a daily basis rather than less. His desk was never without an air circulation charm in summer or a warming spell in winter, and in potions he cast at least a half dozen extra spells around his cauldron. Hermione had always disliked this about Malfoy. It had seemed to her a contemptible way to live. Could he really not be bothered to pick up a quill on his own or endure an hour in a classroom that was slightly warm?

But after watching Harry over the past couple of weeks, she had been forced to reevaluate. He had started using magic more; nothing like Malfoy yet, but the change was still noticeable. He accioed his things rather than walking across the room to pick them up, and he'd gotten into the quirky habit of stirring his morning tea with a swish of his hand over the cup. There was, she thought, something more special, more fey maybe, about this new Harry. He blew on the wicks of his candles to light them when he needed to study, and they burned without smoke. Once, to her shock, he had whistled while he read one of his books, and a small flock of fairies had flown through the open window to dance in the air over his head.

At her flabbergasted expression, he had admitted with a trace of embarrassment that he had learned about the fairies and the candle trick from Mrs. Temple, a woman who apparently taught magic to the youngest Dark children. Having known Harry for years, she was able to see the beauty in what he was doing in a way that she had never noticed when watching Malfoy (probably because she had, and always would, think of Malfoy as a spoilt, useless fop). Harry wasn't being ridiculous; there was no such thing as overusing magic, and she winced at her foolish assumptions. He was a wizard, of course he ought to be using magic for anything and everything. She shuddered to think how much better at magic in general people like Malfoy ought to be compared to those for whom magic was only a small part of life. She realized, with a grudging sort of jealousy, that magic wasn't a part of the average pureblood wizard's life, it was his life; and it was becoming more and more that way for Harry now that he had found a home among the Dark wizards.

And doesn't that sting? Doesn't that just suck? Hermione thought a bit bitterly as she kicked a stone from her path after a rather trying morning at Grimmauld Place. The savior of the wizarding world had had to become a Dark wizard before anyone bothered to show him how to live like a wizard. Where did that leave her? She was a muggleborn orphan with no claim to importance except through her friendship with Harry Potter. Who was there to pull her aside and show her what it really meant to be a witch now that she was nearly an adult?

She sighed and turned her steps toward her temporary home, a dingy one-room flat in muggle London, not far from the back entrance to Knockturn Alley. She had spent a few days at the Doxy Closet, living in the room next to Harry's, but she wasn't really cut out for that lifestyle. What was to Harry wondrous and exciting was more than a little frightening to her. He had eagerly shown her around the streets, and he had even tried to show her the difference between the Dark spells he had come to love and the regular spells she was used to casting as a Hogwarts student. Hermione had refused at first, then she had allowed herself to be talked into giving it a shot. She could understand, in a vague intellectual way, why Harry might like it, but it wasn't for her. The magic felt odd to her, and to be completely honest, the idea of the commitment and the community scared her.

Harry had sulkily helped her move to the nearby muggle flat after extracting a promise that she would visit every day. She did. They were still trying to figure out how to cover that mark on his face. Hermione couldn't see it herself, but so far everything they had tried that Harry said worked to cover it, was far too obvious.

The balaclava she usually wore on the way to her visits was uncomfortable, and she hated skulking about Knockturn Alley in it; but she found Harry's presence comforting. Not like the Order, she thought with a grimace. By the end of her first week with Harry, she had worked herself up to going to Grimmauld Place. Predictably, she had found a number of Order members there, stationed as part of the Harry Potter search party. Dumbledore had been called immediately, and she had told them the story she and Harry had worked out. They were hoping to minimize the questioning she and Harry would receive at school by feeding the Order bits of the story during the summer. She admitted readily that Harry had rescued her; after all, they already knew that from Snape. Everything else she told them was more or less a fabrication. Harry had stayed with her for a couple of days to make sure she was alright, she said. They had been in a tent in a forest somewhere (Hermione gave a detailed description of the Forest of Dean, where her parents had taken her on holiday once), and then Harry had apparated her to London and given her enough money to find herself a place to stay.

Did she know where Harry was now? No, maybe still in that forest, but he could have moved on. How had Harry learned to apparate? He said he didn't know. He just knew he had to save her. Why had she not contacted them at once? Her parents were dead; did they really expect her to be thinking clearly?

The questioning went on for far longer than Hermione was comfortable with, but in the end, no one doubted her. Why should she lie? She was Hermione Granger, good student, authority lover. She didn't tell lies. In all honesty, the hardest part was convincing them to let her leave. They wanted to send her to the Weasleys. Molly and Arthur were there, and though she loved that they offered to take her in, she could not bear the thought of being surrounded by a family so very whole and together when her own had been taken from her. She wondered if Harry had ever felt the same way. When they tried to insist, she pointed out coldly that she would be an adult in a couple of months, and she had no need of replacement parents. That had shut everyone up, and it had made Hermione feel as if a pit had opened up inside her; but at least they had agreed to let her do her own thing in muggle London. They didn't know exactly where she was staying, but there was no big fuss made over it. No one had time to spare for a nearly seventeen-year-old witch known for her responsibility and independence when the Savior was missing.

She had gone back to Grimmauld Place a couple of times since then to floo to the Weasleys and visit, partly to keep up appearances, partly because she wanted to, and partly to gather information that might help Harry avoid the Order. It was strange. Harry had changed so much, and she felt like a completely different person since her parents' deaths; but Ron was the same as before. The space between them was wider than ever, and the worst thing was that Ron didn't even seem to notice. Ginny was surprisingly mawkish and unpleasant as well, and Hermione always cut her visits short.

Hermione cut through a major department store on her way back to her flat, lost herself in a crowd of weekend shoppers, then ducked behind the racks to scuttle out the way she had come. She didn't think any Order members were sparing the energy to follow her, not with Harry "lost", but she was always careful. She knew for a fact that most of the Order, like many wizardborn, were fairly helpless in the muggle world. A couple of escalators, a revolving door, a detour into a public restroom, and a change of hairstyle would pretty much ensure that the average wizard was hopelessly confused if you made sure you did it where they couldn't easily cast a spell to locate you.

When she made it back to her flat she plopped down on her bed and went to sleep. She'd been keeping a nocturnal schedule for the past two weeks so that she would be able to spend time with Harry. It made her exhausted, but that was okay. Hermione was trying to wear herself out these days. It kept the nightmares at bay.

Harry [] [] [] [] [] [] Harry

After they finished working with the target, the dueling class moved on to engaging in practice duels. They dueled with a different opponent every night, and then everyone took a turn getting trounced by Lucius. It wasn't fun by any stretch of the imagination, but it was quite educational. Harry winced when he was paired with Mulciber; the big wizard was the best duelist in the class other than Lucius himself. He wasn't very fast on his feet, but he was quick-witted and creative, and each of his spells had a lot of force behind it. Even if you managed to cast the correct shield, it always felt as though you'd been hit by a lorry. Harry lasted a full minute and a half in tonight's duel, mostly by running from Mulciber's spells. He was brought down by combined trip jinx and stomach expelling hex that had him laying on the floor, projectile vomiting, until Malfoy was able to sort him out.

"Disgusting," he said as he struggled to his feet and cast several cleaning spells on his robes. He glared at Mulciber, only half in jest, and the older wizard smiled and waved good naturedly. He sat down behind the shielding to watch Draco's duel with Carrow. Draco was losing, spouting blood from both nostrils already and limping around the ballroom on a bum leg. Carrow was an interesting one to duel. He wasn't as good as Davan and Mulciber, but he was still, technically, better than Harry and Draco. Carrow's problem was that he was clumsy. He was not Tonks-clumsy, but every now and then he seemed to have a sort of dizzy spell and he would make the oddest mistakes. Mulciber claimed that a house elf had dropped Carrow on his head as a baby, but Harry didn't know whether to believe it or not. If Draco could hold out until Carrow made a mistake, he might actually win.

Normally Harry and Draco dueled each other while the other three worked together, but Davan was gone tonight. Davan had been missing a lot of lessons, and when he did show up he looked run down. Davan received sympathetic looks from the others when he was present, and Lucius Malfoy had refrained from commenting on the young man's more or less constant state of dishevel. Harry didn't know for sure, but he suspected that Voldemort was still taking his anger out on Davan for failing to capture Harry. His scar had been throbbing a lot lately; Voldemort had been in a towering rage ever since he had rescued Hermione.

Really need to learn occlumency, he reminded himself. He and Zate had yet to figure out how to keep not only Voldemort, but also Snape and Dumbledore, out of Harry's head. Hermione had taken up the task of researching occlumency for him, but so far everything indicated that a student had to have a legilimens for a teacher. Obviously that couldn't happen. He would have to trust any legilimens with all his thoughts, and though that hadn't actually been very dangerous last year, when he had had the opportunity to learn it from Snape, now it would likely be fatal.

Hermione had been a godsend lately. She was more subdued than she had been before, a little harsher, but that was understandable. Zate hadn't been willing to pay another assistant, and he and Hermione didn't get on all that well at any rate. She had looked for awhile for a job in the muggle world, but eventually she had given up. "I don't have any identification," she pointed out. "And when people ask questions about my age or my parents I don't really know what to say."

Hermione was waiting until term began in September to get herself reestablished in both the muggle and wizarding worlds. It was safer that way, especially since Voldemort seemed to feel personally affronted by her narrow escape from death. "I'll lay low until then," she had said pragmatically. "It's not like you couldn't use my time anyway."

Harry had wanted to pay her, but Hermione refused. They'd had a huge row about it actually. She had no access to money until she could safely announce her survival to the muggle world and take over her parents' accounts, and the Death Eaters had burned down her home, so they hadn't even been able to go back and fetch her possessions. Eventually they arrived at a compromise. Harry paid the rent on Hermione's flat, and he was going to buy all of her supplies before they started back to Hogwarts. Hermione kept a meticulous tally of every galleon Harry spent on her with the intention of paying it back in September, and she helped out with a variety of things that Harry hadn't been keeping up with very well.

They met at different times every day, but Hermione always had the same packet in hand. Inside the large yellow envelope, she kept organized all of the business she thought he ought to deal with that day. She went through his fan mail (something Harry had never gotten around to doing) and selected two or three letters that she thought he ought to read, burning the rest. "It's not like you have the time, or ever will, to read all of these," she had pointed out when he protested the destruction of the growing pile of letters. She also enclosed any post from Ron, Ginny, or other people at school.

In the packet, there would also be a list of ten or so spells that she thought he ought to learn. Lately, these had all consisted of housekeeping or personal grooming spells for some reason. Harry certainly didn't mind knowing the charm to keep his trainers from coming untied, but he couldn't quite figure out why Hermione thought it was of vital importance. The rest of the items in the envelope differed from day to day, but they almost always consisted of things Harry would never have thought to do for himself. Over the past weeks, Hermione had provided a huge variety: information pamphlets on NEWT level courses, important newspaper clippings, book recommendations (of course), a wizarding calendar, reminders to buy Hedwig owl treats, and more. He walked into his room at the Doxy Closet one day only to find that Hermione had spent hours going through his trunk organizing his things...which of course meant that he could no longer locate any of his stuff. Normally, he would have been infuriated at such an invasion of privacy, but he got the distinct impression that Hermione might have a breakdown if he said anything. She was working like a nutter every day, apparently in an effort to keep her mind off of her parents; and with her own life in a shambles until September, she was directing all of her considerable energy into fixing Harry's. All things considered, it could have been much worse. This was rather like having an overbearing personal assistant, and it did allow Harry to focus on other things.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted when Draco plopped down next to him in an unusually undignified way and nudged him with an elbow. "Not bad, if I do say so myself," he said a bit smugly as he indicated Carrow with a nod of his head. Draco had won his duel against all odds, and Lucius was now helping a dazed Carrow off of the floor.

"Nice one," Harry agreed.

"Are you excited about tomorrow?" Draco asked curiously. "Anyone else would be over the moon, but you don't seem too fussed about it."

Harry felt a slight jolt of adrenaline at the mention of tomorrow. He'd been more or less avoiding thinking about it, because he really didn't know what to expect. "I'm a little nervous I guess," he said. "It's only my second ceremony, you know. I haven't had years and years to look forward to it like you did."

Draco pursed his mouth thoughtfully. "I guess I forget sometimes how new this all is to you," he said after a short pause. "You've taken to everything so naturally."

"Some things have been hard," Harry said simply. He and Zate had been working out a lot of kinks in Harry's understanding of Dark culture over the past weeks, and he was still learning new things every day.

"I imagine so," Draco said. He smiled. "The Coming of Age ceremony is nothing but fun, though, so don't worry."

[] [] [] [] [] []

August 1st, 5:00 AM

The wizarding village of Berceau was an obscure place, a small collection of stone cottages on the west coast of France. Several meters from the last house, waves lapped peacefully against a deserted shore, and only a few of the windows in the village shone with a rosy light against the gray glow of pre-dawn. Rain was falling very lightly, a faint whisper that was almost drowned out by the sea. On a grassy hillock no more than a stone's throw away from the little graveyard that bordered the northern side of the town, a flock of partridges sheltered from the drizzle.

A sharp crack rent the stillness as a black-robed figure appeared on top of the knoll. The partridges scattered in alarm, their wings beating the air furiously. Harry looked up towards the sky in surprise; the rain was unexpected. He cast a spell to shield himself from the rain and squinted toward the village, which was just becoming visible as the sky lightened. Two days ago, he had side-along apparated here with Lucius Malfoy of all people, so that he would know what it looked like in order to make the journey on his own. It was almost impossible to travel to a place you had never seen before unless you could visualize it perfectly.

Harry liked the town, though he had only ever seen it from this hillock. It was quiet and unassuming. Directly across the village from where he stood, was a blocky, three-story tall building of whitewashed stone. At the moment, it was visible only as a dark smudge against the horizon, but in full daylight it was clearly the largest structure in the community. It was also the only reason an English wizard might decide to make the rather inconvenient trip from London to Berceau. A large gold plaque by the doors read "St. Germaine's."

St. Germaine's was a private hospital that rarely served anyone but witches and wizards from the surrounding area. Unlike the British hospital St. Mungo's, its staff was small and unspecialized. Only three or four fully-trained healers worked at the hospital, most of them retired from more glamorous positions at larger institutions; other than that, the staff was made up of volunteers with varying degrees of skill and a mediocre Potions Master who was down on his luck. It would seem, at first glance, that there was little to recommend the place; but St. Germaine's was unique in one way. It was one of the last hospitals in Europe that required its staff to abide by the ancient healer's oath – to heal all without prejudice and to demand no recompense.

It was in this humble place, sixteen years and one day ago, that Harry Potter had been born, and it was here that he would come of age. Well, he would as soon as the rest of his party arrived at any rate; he was a bit early. He cast drying charms at the grass while he waited, thinking that the ceremony would be a bit more dignified if he didn't have to go through it with his robes soggy.

As Harry waited, he looked squinted around him with interest. He had been a bit uncertain when Zate informed him a week ago that Coming of Age ceremonies were normally performed at the site of one's birth. "I guess we'll have to work something out around Mungo's, boy?" the old Dark wizard had asked as they worked together in the back of the shop, picking out ingredients that had gone bad. "Most of our lot do home births. Easier to slip in the proper rituals that way without nosy healers watching."

Harry had only been able to shrug in confusion. He had no idea where he had been born. St. Mungo's was the obvious assumption, but with Voldemort being aware of the prophecy prior to his birth, he wasn't sure if his parents might have chosen to do something else. "You mean you don't know?" Zate had said exasperatedly. "Why couldn't you have mentioned this sooner? I would have told everyone we were doing it later in the month if I'd known we were going to have to dig through Ministry paperwork just to figure out what rock you were spawned under."

"You didn't tell me it had to be in a specific place," Harry retorted, a bit offended. "Besides, if we did it any later the others would have a fit. They're already upset we're not going to do it on my fake birthday."

Zate had waved a satchel of Doxy eggs through the air as he gesticulated irritably. "Ridiculous behavior from that lot," he snorted. "Really, everyone knows that Snape didn't get around to having a ceremony until he was nearly nineteen. Granted, he's about as abnormal as they come, but it's not like he suffered for it. They're being superstitious. All that matters is that you do it after you're sixteen and not a day before. It would have been so much more convenient if you'd made yourself a few days younger rather than older when you started lying about dates."

Harry had been worried that they wouldn't be able to find the place in time, but Hermione had solved the problem in a trice and much more easily than Harry had imagined was possible. She had simply sought out Lupin on one of her visits to Grimmauld Place and asked him where Harry was born on the pretext of wanting to mail him a copy of his birth certificate as a birthday present since she couldn't afford to buy anything. Harry thought this was a bit of a weird idea for a gift, but apparently Lupin found sentimentality endearing, because Hermione had delivered the birth certificate the next day.

It was a strangely unofficial looking scrap of parchment with almost no information on it. It stated only that a male child had been born to Lily Evans, an English witch, on July 31st in Berceau, France at St. Germaine's hospital. Mr. J. Prongs was listed as the father. The witnesses to the birth had been Mr. R. Moony and Mr. S. Padfoot. The baby's name was Harry, no surname. Harry wondered, with a smile, if that meant that he was legally "just Harry."

Harry was distracted from his musings when Narcissa and Draco Malfoy appeared next to him on the knoll, both wearing formal robes for the occasion. They looked around curiously. "Rotten luck with the weather," Draco noted with his nose wrinkled.

Narcissa looked toward the rapidly brightening eastern horizon with a worried frown. "I do hope Zate arrives soon," she said. "We need to get started shortly."

"He'll be here," Harry assured her. "He's stopping in several places along the way to break up the trip. I imagine it's taking him a bit longer."

"You apparated here all the way from London?" Draco asked, sounding more than a little jealous. He had only managed to apparate on his own a couple of days ago, and it was a bit of a sore subject.

Harry grinned. "I stopped in Le Havre. I'd splinch myself six ways if I tried to make it this far in one go."

"Mother, I told you I could have made it from Paris on my own," Draco complained.

A moment later, Zate arrived, looking absolutely dreadful in his ancient velvet formal robes, and the ceremony began. Harry knelt in the grass, and the other three stood around him, forming the points of an imaginary triangle with himself at the center. In his hands, Harry held a shallow wooden bowl that contained all of the "wishes" he had received from his fellow Dark wizards for this occasion. It had been a moving experience to open the numerous small packages of herbs and flowers and leaves that had been arriving for him over the last few days. Because almost none of them knew him personally, and because only Zate knew all of his secrets, the offerings tended to be generic.

Whereas the average Dark wizard would receive wishes directed toward his particular needs, everyone had had to guess what might be helpful to the Peverell heir in adulthood. Harry had received an embarrassing number of pomegranate seeds and fig leaves; apparently a lot of people were under the impression that fertility was a universally appreciated gift. Still, he had enjoyed looking up the meaning of each item. There was something special about knowing that someone had hoped for something specific and positive for your future. Well, it was almost all positive. Snape had sent him an offering that was faintly threatening in Harry's opinion - maidenhair, the symbol of discretion and secrecy. Clearly, Snape knew that he was keeping secrets; although Harry supposed that the maidenhair might be considered advice, or even praise, coming from the Head of Slytherin.

Zate began the ritual by speaking the opening phrases. The ceremony required three adult witnesses, one each to represent past, present, and future, and Harry had asked him to take the role that symbolized his past. He felt like it was only right, since none of the other Dark ones knew the truth about his history. Draco had been another easy choice. They had known each other since they were eleven, even if the blonde didn't realize that, and despite occasional lapses when Harry wanted to punch the ferret in the mouth just for existing, they were well on their way to being friends. Draco had been almost unbearably please to be asked, especially since he was barely an adult himself. The third spot had been difficult to fill. Oddly enough, the Dark wizard he trusted most, after Zate, was Snape; but there was no way Harry was going to put himself deliberately in Snape's path. Lucius Malfoy was out of the question; Harry wasn't about to invite a Death Eater who had tried to kill him to participate in his coming of age ceremony, even if said Death Eater had been surprisingly helpful and pleasant lately. In the end, Harry had chosen to ask Narcissa, a decision based mostly on the fact that she was unfailingly nice to him every time he went to Malfoy manor and that, as far as he knew, she was not a Death Eater herself.

After he finished speaking the introductory part, Zate approached his kneeling assistant, and looked down at him. "Your childhood is passing, Hephaestus Peverell," he intoned. "You will now set aside the things of your youth, and you must be your own guide. The choices of a child are not fully binding. Have you chosen, in your adulthood, to follow the ways of the Dark?"

Harry opened his mouth to give the response, but Zate held up a single finger to stall him. The old apothecary glanced swiftly at Narcissa and Draco, who had their heads bowed toward the ground in the traditional pose, and then he spoke in the barest of whispers so that Harry had to strain his hearing to catch it. "Your childhood is passing, Harry James Potter," he said. "Have you chosen, in your adulthood, to follow the ways of the Dark?"

Harry met Zate's serious expression with a broad smile. "I have," he said firmly. The magic that had been gathering around the knoll seemed to taughten in anticipation. Harry was glad that he sensed no overpowering magical presence as he had at Midsummer; that might be difficult to explain.

Zate held out his offering over the wooden bowl, showing it to Harry. It was a palm frond. "Do you accept this wish for your journey?" he asked.

"Yes," said Harry, and Zate dropped it into the bowl.

"May you be victorious," he said.

Zate took his place again, and Narcissa stepped forward. "Yesterday and tomorrow matter not, Hephaestus Peverell," she said calmly. "We are given only the Now. Do you chose, now, to follow the ways of the Dark?"

"I do," he said.

Like Zate, she held out her offering and asked if he accepted it. He had no idea what it was, but he said yes anyway. "Volkamenia," she explained with a small quirk of the lips as she dropped it in the bowl. "May you be happy."

Draco made his way over with a swagger that was so familiar Harry almost laughed out loud. He found himself wishing for the first time that he was not keeping his identity a secret. It was tough to be the only one who could fully appreciate the ironies that now surrounded him on a daily basis. "The future is ever uncertain, Hephaestus Peverell, but it is forged by our own decisions. We walk blind, but we are not without power. Are you a child any longer?"

"I am not. I am a man."

"Are you a Dark wizard?"

"Damn straight."

Draco almost fell over in shock, and Harry thought Zate's hacking cough sounded more like laughter. "Right," said Draco, trying to recover himself. He held out a sprig of ivy. "Do you accept this wish?" he asked sternly.

"I do," said Harry, almost chortling at Draco's suspicious expression. Clearly the blonde no longer thought he could be trusted to stick to the formula.

Draco dropped the ivy in the bowl. "May you never walk alone," he said.

As Draco returned to his spot, Harry leaned forward and blew a slow puff of breath over the contents of the bowl. The leaves and twigs and flowers inside began to smolder, and then they burst into white flames. Harry caught his breath even though he'd been told to expect this. If he had spoken truly, the flames would not burn him. The fire spread from the contents of the bowl to the bowl itself, and then Harry's hands were engulfed in white flame. It didn't hurt at all, but he definitely felt it. A tingling warmth spread from his hands to his shoulders and then down his back all the way to his feet. They had timed the ceremony perfectly. Harry was bathed in the unbearably bright fire for only a moment, then the sun breached the horizon, and the flames were extinguished. Harry blinked in the pale pink light of dawn. He looked down at his hands. They were completely unharmed, but a faint smudge of ash on the ground was all that remained of the bowl.

[] [] [] [] [] []

After numerous congratulations, the others disapparated. Narcissa and Draco had insisted that he come by the manor for a brunch, and he had promised to be there in a few hours; but Harry delayed his own departure from Berceau. He walked to the shore and stood at the edge of the waves for a long time. The drizzle had stopped. As the sun rose behind him and the light turned from pink to gold, Harry lay back on the sand, not caring that he was ruining the expensive robes. One day, he promised himself, if he made it through the war, he would come back to Berceau. He would spend every day on this beach, until he learned what it was like to live without shadows hanging over his head.


	28. Everyone's August

Chapter 28: Everyone's August

[][] Ron Weasley [][]

The gnome, shaking its fists in impotent fury, sailed through the air and over the hedge. Weasley shoots, he scores! That's another ten points for the Cannons. I don't know how he does it. A superb keeper, fantastic, but I never knew he could play chaser as well! Ron watched as the distant gnome picked itself up and began to stagger dizzily away. He sighed and reached under the begonia for another victim. Degnoming the garden sucked a lot more when you had to do it alone, and with Fred and George living in Diagon Alley and Ginny always off visiting Luna Lovegood or Dean Thomas, Ron had been stuck on his own a lot this summer. You'd think a bloke could catch a break after nearly being murdered by Death Eaters and Department of Mysteries science experiments, but his mum didn't seem to agree.

Should've gone to visit old Loony with Ginny, he thought glumly as he swung yet another gnome around in circles. This was the first summer he could remember anticipating going back to school. He was sick to death of being at the Burrow with no company. He'd started playing games of chess with himself, which was an all-time low in his opinion. He hadn't quite been driven to studying his schoolwork to stave off the boredom, but it was a close thing. Harry owed him at least a few pick-up quidditch matches once they were all back at Hogwarts.

Not that he blamed Harry. How could he? The Dursleys were the fattest and nastiest bunch of wankers Ron had ever heard of, and everyone knew it. Harry had had the patience of a tree to put up with them for fifteen years. Ron couldn't understand why everyone was so shocked that he'd finally done a runner. Even weeks after the fact, everyone was still expecting Harry to "come to his senses,"... well, except maybe Dumbledore. The Headmaster was still looking for Harry, but as far as Ron could tell, he no longer expected to find him.

No, even if he thought that Harry ought to write a bit more often, (Really, five letters all summer? What the hell else did he have to do?) Ron could understand his absence. Hermione, on the other hand... She'd lost her parents of course. Ron didn't have any clue how awful that must be, but did she have to be such a ghost? Honestly. She would pop over for a couple hours at a time, then vanish with no explanation for days on end. It might have done her good to have some company, but she wasn't interested in hanging around the Burrow. No one else thought this behavior was suspicious. She's grieving, Ron. Give her some space, Ron. Such an independent girl. She wants to be on her own. Bullshit.

Ron wasn't the sharpest knife in the cupboard, but even he knew that Hermione was Up To Something. Ron knew his best friends. If Harry was Up To Something, then it was about Voldemort. If Hermione was Up To Something, it was about House Elves or Harry. Since she hadn't been toting around a box of SPEW badges, Ron was almost positive that Hermione's absence had something to do with Harry, and he was a little, just a teensy bit, pissed that neither of his best friends had bothered to fill him in. He could keep a secret for Merlin's sake! Pick-up quidditch. Homework help. They both owed him that much.

The next gnome felt the full effect of his frustration. It flew up in a beautiful arc, well over the hedge, and he had to squint against the blazing sun to watch it. Just as it started to descend, a bolt of white feathers shot down out of the sky and snatched it up.

Ron blinked in shock. He didn't realize that owls would eat gnomes. Crookshanks would, sure, but that cat was a beast. Pig never...well, Pig probably wasn't big enough to catch a gnome.

"Hey, Hedwig," he greeted the bird as she flapped down to land on his outstretched arm. The gnome was still twitching in her beak. Gross. "Guess I don't need to find you an owl treat then?"

He heard bones crunch as Hedwig clamped her beak tighter around her snack. She held out one leg, and he untied the scroll of parchment. "I'll send Pig back with a reply," he told her. She blinked at him, then took off into the sky. Must be nice to have an owl that smart. Pig was a nutter.

He unrolled the parchment eagerly.

Hey, Mate!

I know it's been awhile since my last letter, but I don't really have much to say. Being on the run sounds exciting and all, but there's not that much to do. Just keeping my head down and waiting for September 1st. Tell your mum I said thanks for the offer, but I can make it to the station by myself.

I have done the charms homework, actually. (Don't tell Hermione! She'll go all smug on me.) The jabs are more important than the flourishes because they actually direct the spell. The flourishes look wicked, but they're just to help you focus. Bit of a stupid thing to have to write sixteen inches on if you ask me. All the theory is in the second chapter of our new textbook.

Thanks for the birthday gift. Chocolate frogs for the win. I got Ptolemy, and you can't have him. Ha!

Like I said, I'm not doing much. Lazing about and reading. I want to get some spells prepped for the DA. I had to promise you-know-who...the bushy-haired one, not the psychopath...that I would continue it this year. You up for it?

See you soon!

Harry

[][] Harry[][]

Swish. CRACK. Swish. CRACK. Swish. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. "Damn!"

"Harry, don't swear."

Harry glared at his friend. Hermione sat Indian-style on the grimy pavement, hunched over the sixth year transfiguration textbook. "That's easy for you to say, Hermione. You won't even try," he complained.

"I've told you," she said primly. "There are going to be apparition lessons at school this year. I can wait for a qualified instructor. I'm only here to make sure you don't splinch yourself."

"I'm not going to splinch myself apparating just a few feet at a time. Iam licensed now, you know." He focused on a bedraggled copy of The Daily Prophet on the other side of the tiny back alley. All things considered, the area surrounding the back entrance to Knockturn Alley wasn't the ideal location for apparition practice; but at least there wouldn't be any notices from the Ministry about underage magic if they had to use their wands to fix any accidents. His shiny new "special circumstances" apparition license, courtesy of Malfoy and a note from a St. Mungo's mediwitch confirming his floo allergy, would ensure that his apparition wasn't even registered in the future. Swish. He disappeared. CRACK. He reappeared on top of the newspaper.

"Licensed or not, you still sound like a car backfiring," Hermione noted dryly.

Harry scowled at her. "I know," he said. "I'm going to get the hang of this eventually, though." Swish. CRACK. Swish. CRACK. His head was starting to pound from the effort.

"Well you've got the disappearing part down," Hermione noted. "You don't make much sound at all when you disapparate. What is it you're doing differently?"

"I just try to do it more slowly, if that makes sense, but I can't seem to reappear more slowly."

Swish. CRACK. Swish. CRACK.

"I can't believe you found a way to retake your OWL's," Hermione complained for the hundredth time. "It's completely unfair."

Harry laughed. "Only you would be jealous that I had to retake a bunch of tests, Hermione."

"I wish I could retake mine," she said in a huffy voice.

Harry rolled his eyes. Their OWL scores had arrived a couple of weeks ago. His had been predictably average, with the exception of his DADA score, while Hermione's had been predictably amazing. Harry wasn't exactly happy with his scores, but he was satisfied. He would never have wanted to retake the tests, but when it came time for Hephaestus Peverell to get his apparition license, it also came to light that he had never been registered with the Ministry of Magic. Apparently this kind of thing wasn't all that uncommon in the wizarding world. Witches had children at home without ever mentioning it to the Ministry, or the families of muggleborns chose not to send their children to Hogwarts; so some people just slipped through the cracks in the system. When one of these people wanted to purchase a wand or obtain a license of some kind, however, they had to pass at least three OWL's to prove that they weren't a hazard to society. Because Harry was friends with Hermione Granger, he had had to retake all of his OWL's to keep her from blowing up. "It's your future," she had said in a horrified voice when he told her he only planned to retake Charms, Transfiguration and Herbology. "What if you need to use these scores to get a job?"

He had tried to explain that he already had one set of scores as Harry Potter, and they were just fine, thank you very much. Of course, that hadn't worked. He'd ended up retaking all of his OWL's except for divination, and at Hermione's insistence, he'd also taken the Muggle Studies OWL as well as one for Ancient Wizarding History, which he had a fair grasp of after weeks of lessons at Malfoy manor. He expected to do a little better on all of his exams than he had before, but it wasn't as though he was ever going to use these OWL's for anything.

Silent apparition, on the other hand, would be extremely useful.

Swish. CRACK. Swish. CRACK. Swish. Swish.

Hermione looked up from her book in surprise. Harry felt a grin stretching his face. "Did you just...?" she asked.

Swish. Harry disappeared. Swish. He reappeared right next to Hermione.

"Yes!" he crowed, punching the air with a fist.

[][]Astoria Greengrass[][]

"Robin, I am not a ribbon rack. Get this stuff off of me!"

Astoria tried without much success to hold in her laughter at the sight of Hephaestus Peverell. She, Daphne, and their mother had arrived at Renata's Robes late in the afternoon to find that the whole store had apparently been prepared for their arrival. Any menswear must have been shunted into a back room, because the racks were filled with nothing but examples of the latest in witch's fashions. The seamstress, Robin, had put a "Closed" sign on the door as soon as they entered, and they had spent the last two hours going through fabric samples and sketches.

Astoria was delighted. Daphne was delighted. Their mother was feeling judgmental however. Robin was young, and her designs were a little nontraditional. Mother was a slave to Twillfit and Tattings, and she was looking for excuses to be difficult. "Where is your assistant, young lady?" she had asked in a snide voice after Robin had had to dash away yet again to find something in the back of the shop. "Surely a shop of this size has more than a single employee?"

Robin had looked distraught for only a moment before recovering. "Of course, Lady Greengrass," she'd said. "I don't know what's taking him so long. He was supposed to be here ages ago! Let me go get him."

She had handed Astoria's mother the latest edition of What Witches Wear, shouted "I'll be right back!" and run out of the store at top speed. She had returned a minute later with a baffled looking Hephaestus Peverell in tow.

"You need me to what?" he had asked loudly as he was dragged through the door. "Do I look like I belong in a women's robe shop?"

Their mother had sighed in exasperation as Daphne and Astoria had burst into giggles at the sight of the young wizard, but even she had eventually given in to her amusement. Hephaestus had been forced into service, and he now stood in one corner with a mutinous expression on his face. He held bolts of fabric in his arms, and he was festooned with satin ribbons, strings of pearls, and bits of lace. He looked, Astoria thought, like a very unhappy Christmas tree.

Daphne emerged from the changing room in yet another gorgeous gown, and spun slowly on the spot for their approval. "What do you think?" she asked. "Robin suggested embroidery for the bodice, but I was thinking maybe seed pearls."

"I like it," said Astoria. "You should go for the embroidery I think. Pearls are a little outdated."

Robin shouted "Exactly!," but it sounded more like "Effacty!" around the pins she held between her lips as she pinched pleats and tugged the fabric into a perfect fit.

"What do you think, Hephaestus?" Astoria asked, smiling at the exasperated expression on his face. He was so freaking cute when he was annoyed.

"Very nice," he said vaguely as he watched Daphne twirl. "Very yellow."

"It's saffron!" Robin and Daphne both shouted in scandalized voices.

"That's alright, Hephaestus," Astoria said in a mock-sympathetic tone. "I thought it was yellow too."

[][]Hermione[][]

The occlumency problem, as she'd taken to calling it in her head, had been plaguing them all summer, and with only three weeks left before they headed back to Hogwarts, Hermione was determined to solve it once and for all. She and Harry had finally found the right combination of muggle make-up and magic that kept the mark on his face hidden, so the only obstacle to him attending Hogwarts was his woeful lack of mental shields. They had looked through every book they could think of, and they had even tried casting Legilimens on each other themselves; and all they had gained for their troubles were ghastly migraines. Hermione refused to believe that the only way to counteract legilimency was occlumency. The idea of one's mind being an open book was horrifying. Surely someone, somewhere, had come up with an alternative solution. And if there was a Plan B of some kind, then surely someone in the Order had to know of it. And if they knew something, then Hermione Granger was going to make them give her that knowledge, because she was not going back to school without Harry.

Hermione ran to Grimmauld Place. I'm really out of shape, she thought as she gasped for breath, then panic, panic, panic, she reminded herself. You've got to be hysterical. Got to make this good. Got to scare their pants off. Harry had suggested this idea, half-joking, but Hermione was the one who was determined to make it work. She took the steps two at a time, burst through the front door, and ran inside screaming. "Professor Dumbledore! Professor Dumbledore!"

Tonks and Lupin appeared, wands drawn and eyes wide. "Hermione, what's happening?" Lupin demanded.

She threw herself forward. The running had been a good idea. It made her red-faced and breathless, gave her a little leeway to make up for her acting skills. "It's Harry!" she said, waving the sheet of crumpled parchment in her hand. "It's Harry! He's in trouble."

Lupin snatched the parchment out of her hand and read it with a growing look of fear. Hermione squashed down her guilt as she sucked in big gulps of air. She and Harry had spent an hour writing that short letter, trying to make it as horrifying as possible without giving any real information. "We've got to tell Professor Dumbledore!" she cried. "Harry's going to do something dangerous. I know it!"

"Shut up!" Lupin growled. "I'm reading." That almost snapped Hermione out of her fake panic. Lupin had just told her to shut up? Lupin? They must have been even more stressed out than she had thought. They'd probably chain Harry to his bed in Gryffindor tower when they finally got back to Hogwarts. Not that that was a bad idea.

Lupin dropped the letter to the floor then dashed to the kitchen, presumably to floo call for an emergency meeting of the Order. Tonks bent to pick up the letter, and Hermione saw her eyes widen. She thought about what they'd written.

Hermione,

I had to tell someone. I don't know who to trust. Ever since I rescued you, he's been so angry. I try every night before I sleep to close my mind. That's what Snape said to do. But nothing happens. As soon as I close my eyes there are no walls between us. I see terrible things in my dreams, and sometimes it's hard to wake up. I don't know what's real anymore. Sometimes I don't even know who I am, Hermione. I keep thinking about what happened to Sirius. Do you know what it's like not to trust your own thoughts?

I feel like I'm going mad. I can't even come back to Hogwarts like this. What if I put you all in danger? What if I'm not always myself? I'm sure Ginny will understand at least.

Don't worry if I'm not on the Hogwarts Express September 1st. I'm not going to come to school until I'm sure it's safe for all of you.

All my love,

Harry

Dumbledore was here. She watched him, her face still stricken but her mind curiously detached, as he pried the letter from Tonks's grip. She watched the look of horror that crossed his features, the look of true fear. Harry hadn't really explained his reasoning, but he had assured her that implied possession would be the most likely way to get the headmaster to take action of some kind. Harry, you were right, she thought as she watched the old man's face crumple. But we may have overdone it.

[][]Snape[][]

Severus Snape did not care that Harry Potter was missing. He did not care that the son of perfect James Potter might be hungry or cold or lost. He did not care that a large group of relatively powerful wizards had decided to devote every waking moment of the past several weeks to looking for the boy. If Harry Potter was not in mortal danger then it was not his job to care, he did not want to care, and all the lemon drops and twinkles in the world could not make him care. He strongly disliked Mr. Potter for a sundry list of reasons, and as long as the golden child of Gryffindor was not lying in a pool of his own blood at the foot of the Dark Lord, Severus Snape did not care.

Snape did, however, care very much when he was dragged away from a potion he had been working on for two and a half months so that he could hear about the brat's latest emotional crisis. Because that was exactly what this was as far as he was concerned. The letter had been read and re-read until Snape's ears bled with the horrified wailing of his fellow Order of the Phoenix members, and what did this travesty of epistolary writing say? "Dear Hermione Granger, the Dark Lord can read my mind. He can show me visions. Oh my God. Love, Harry Potter."

Snape hated to admit it, but as he observed the utter chaos that surrounded him, he was more than a little...confused. Potter received visions from the Dark Lord, and he had decided he might not come back to school out of a misapplied sense of noble self-sacrifice. Why, exactly, was this news surprising? There was no shocking revelation here. Potter's mind had an open-door policy; the Dark Lord could waltz in and build castles out of the tapioca that was Potter's brain. Was he the only one who had gotten that memo? As Molly Weasley burst into tears for the third time in fifteen minutes, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to be a long meeting.

"Dumbledore, we'll send him a letter," Lupin was saying. The werewolf leaned across the table toward the Headmaster, his voice urgent. "We'll convince him to come back. We can protect him at Hogwarts."

"I can't believe You-Know-Who is havin' another go at Harry," Hagrid said with a shake of his head.

"I know," Molly Weasley wailed. "I th-thought Harry hadn't had any v-visions in ages."

I am surrounded by morons. Severus wanted to hex them all permanently silent. Across the room, Hermione Granger raised her hand. Snape took a perverse sort of pleasure in imagining what she might say. Excuse me, Professor Hagrid, but Voldemort is the Bad Guy in this soap opera. It's only logical that he would "have another go" at Harry, who is the Good Guy. I read about it in Hogwarts, a History.

If she actually said that, or anything even remotely similar, he was going to give one hundred points to Gryffindor. He smirked at her. "Ms. Granger," he said in a bored voice. "If you want to share with the class, by all means, shout it out."

"Err...right, Professor. Thanks," she said nervously as everyone turned to look at her. Though she'd been in hysterics when they first arrived, she had calmed down remarkably quickly. Severus attributed this to her mistaken impression that she was now in a school setting. He could understand her confusion. He often felt like he was surrounded by teenagers at Order meetings.

The girl took a deep breath. "No offense Mr. Lupin, but I know Harry pretty well; and we'll never convince him to come back to Hogwarts if he thinks it will endanger other students. He won't come back until he's learned occlumency. Isn't there a book or something we can send him? To teach him?"

Now everyone turned to stare at Snape. Wonderful. Yes, of course there's a book! Why didn't I think of that? All these years I've been sitting on a copy of How to Learn Occlumency in Three Easy Steps, and I just didn't mention it out of spite.

"Ms. Granger," he said, "I know this will come as a great shock to you, but not every scrap of knowledge is contained within books. Occlumency is a practical magic. To become an occlumens, you must learn from a legilimens, which Mr. Potter failed to do when he had the opportunity."

"Did Harry fail or did you set him up to fail, Severus?" Lupin asked in a vicious voice. Snape mentally checked the lunar calendar. Ah, yes. Two days until the full moon. Lupin is hormonal. Joy.

And now the gazes were suspicious and accusing. How terribly predictable. "Education generally requires a student and a teacher to work together, Lupin. I did not want to teach. Mr. Potter refused to learn. To be quite frank, I did the bare minimum required of me, which would have been sufficient had Mr. Potter tried even slightly. He did not. Now he suffers. Such is life."

"Yeh cold hearted bastard," Hagrid muttered.

"Indeed. I never pretended to be anything else."

Arguments were breaking out all over the room, but Ms. Granger shouted over them, calling attention to herself. Give up, girl, it's like shouting down a well with this lot. "Well if he can't learn occlumency, isn't there something else? Anything to keep Volde...You-Know-Who from having access to his mind?"

Everyone looked hopefully toward the Headmaster. Come, Albus, pull a rabbit out of the hat for the children. "I'm afraid I don't know of anything like that, Hermione," Dumbledore said with a shake of his head. "The only way to close off a mind is to use occlumency."

No, it's not. Two dozen heads turned as one to face him. Had he spoken out loud? Surely not.

"Severus, you know of something?" Dumbledore asked with a faintly accusing look in his eyes. Apparently he had spoken out loud. He really shouldn't drink before coming to these things, but it made them so much more tolerable.

"It's not legal," he said simply. It's Dark magic.

"Surprise, surprise," Moody grumbled.

"We are, essentially, a vigilante organization, Severus. What is this illegal method of protecting a mind?"

"It's a potion."

"What's so bad about a potion?" Tonks asked. "I mean, you can brew it, right?"

I'm the most talented Potions Master in Europe, you stupid girl, of course I can. "I cannot brew it, actually. I just remembered hearing about it once. I don't even know why I mentioned it." I'm slightly drunk. Definitely not doing this again.

"A potion you can't brew," Lupin scoffed. "You mean you won't brew it because it's for Harry!"

Thank you for the backhanded compliment, but it's time to nip this in the bud. "It's a blood potion, Lupin. I highly doubt you want your puppy to consume a blood potion just to stave off some bad dreams." Look at the blood drain from their faces. Even Shacklebolt looks like a ghost.

"How do you even know about such a potion?" Arthur Weasley asked with a faintly sick expression.

I'm a Dark wizard. A powerful one. And I am a really, really good Potions Master. He allowed himself to grimace. "I keep some unsavory company from time to time. One hears things."

The conversation turned immediately to other ideas. Everyone was shouting things at random, trying to forget the horrible, horrifying thought of having their Savior consume a Dark potion. Snape's eyes drifted around the room until they settled on Ms. Granger. Unlike the others, she had not paled at his words. She probably doesn't know what a blood potion is. She had a most peculiar expression on her face actually; she looked...determined. And, then, she was raising her hand again.

"Why can't Harry take a blood potion?" she asked.

Hell just froze over. From the shell-shocked looks on the faces around him, he wasn't the only one thinking it.

"I mean…" the girl trailed off as she noted the expressions of disbelief that the Order members wore. "Um…I'm guessing a blood potion is a bad thing?"

No, not really, but they think so. Snape waited for someone to respond. No one did. Even Dumbledore was silent. Then, one by one, heads began to turn towards him. I have to answer just because I'm the potions teacher? Typical. Gryffindors are so squeamish.

"A blood potion is made with human blood as a main ingredient, Ms. Granger," he said.

She looked nonplussed. How strange. Had the girl missed out on Light Wizards 101? Snape had assumed it was standard in the first year Gryffindor curriculum. He was sure there was an entire lesson entitled "Thou Shalt Not Use Thy Blood to Do Magic" in there somewhere. "Only a Dark wizard would use human blood in a potion," he clarified. "It's reprehensible."

"You mean you have to kill someone to make the potion?" Her eyes were wide with shock…too wide. Fake. Why is she asking a question to which she already knows the answer?

"Do you die every time you bleed, Ms. Granger?"

"Then I don't understand…"

"This is an unseemly conversation, Ms. Granger. I have no desire to continue it. Suffice it to say that I will not make such a potion." Not for this lot, anyway.

Molly Weasley was now glaring at him. Again. "There's no need to be so harsh, Severus. Hermione's muggleborn. She didn't know." She turned to the girl. "It's alright, dear. We know you're worried about Harry. We'll think of something."

Granger fell silent, and the conversation went on and on, round and round in circles. And in the end, as Severus could have predicted, no feasible decision had been reached. "We'll write Harry back, and we'll increase our efforts to find him," Dumbledore said with a sigh. "That's all we can do, I'm afraid. The moment we find Harry, we'll begin occlumency lessons."

Severus idly scanned the dejected countenances of his fellow Order members. All so sad. All so defeated. Except...Granger had that look. It was that horrible, obnoxious, expression of stubborn self-righteousness that graced the face of a Gryffindor the moment before they did something incredibly brave and foolish, like poking a sleeping dragon in the eye. His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, but before he could even decide if he ought to take a glimpse of her thoughts, she stood up and slammed both of her hands down on the table. "No!" she said shrilly. "That's not acceptable!"

They all stared at the witch. The death of her parents has not improved her temperament. "Now, Hermione," Dumbledore said gently.

Granger rounded on him. "I'm sorry, sir," she said in a tone that suggested she was anything but sorry. "But I don't see how you can claim to care for Harry, to love him, if you're not willing to do everything in your power to keep him safe. He's fought Voldemort for us, over and over again, and now that he needs our help, we're just going to twiddle our thumbs and hope for the best? You-Know-Who is in Harry's head. He's controlling Harry's thoughts. He's hurting him."

She took a deep breath. "You need to use all the resources at your disposal to help Harry." She glanced pointedly at Severus. How rude. "You can't just abandon him to that kind of torture. He trusts you, Headmaster, and you owe him."

Dumbledore bowed his head. "Hermione, my dear, that is something we cannot do."

The girl straightened her back and lifted her chin. "You're not the man I thought you were," she bit out, then she turned on her heel and stalked from the room.

The room was so silent that a quill dropping to the floor would have been earsplitting. Dumbledore looked like a man weighed down by the burden of the ages. "Her distress is understandable," he said at last. "She has lost too much for one so young."

He turned to the room at large. "This meeting is adjourned. Everyone should return to their posts."

Chairs scraped against the floor as Order members beat a hasty retreat from the charged atmosphere in the meeting room. Severus stood to leave, but Dumbledore pinned him with his gaze. "Stay behind please, Severus. I wish to discuss your latest findings."

Findings? My latest findings were non-existent. The Dark Lord is running around the English countryside looking for Potter in every rabbithole. What else is there to report? He only nodded and said, "Of course, Headmaster."

Alastor Moody stumped out of the room last, shooting a glare over his shoulder at Severus as he did. Dumbledore raised his wand and cast a number of privacy spells. "You can brew the potion?" he asked.

What? I thought we had gone over this already. "It is a blood potion."

"I am old, but my hearing remains intact, Severus. I heard you the first time. Can you brew it?"

Is this a trick of some kind? Look at his eyes. He looks…tired, sad, old. "If I were the sort of wizard who practiced such magics," Snape said slowly. "I would not be working for you. I am sure I have the skill to brew it, but I lack the will."

Dumbledore removed his spectacles and polished them on his robe. A nervous gesture. Is he really going to ask me what I think he's going to ask me? "You were not always the man you are now, my boy. I am sure, at some point in your youth, you brewed a blood potion. I am equally sure that you are capable of doing so now if you wished to."

"But I do not wish to, Headmaster."

"We cannot allow Voldemort to control Harry, Severus. You know this. Think of the damage that he could do." Dumbledore sighed. "I confess, I thought at first that we would be able to find Harry, but he has hidden himself too thoroughly. He must return to Hogwarts on September 1st. It is the only way."

Blue eyes met black. "I want you to brew the potion."

Hypocrite. "You ask too much of me, Dumbledore. You, who will not even allow me to teach my chosen subject for fear that I will succumb to temptation. How dare you?"

The old man's eyes hardened. "I dare because I must, Severus. There is more at stake than my morals, more at stake than your own morals."

"What about Potter's morals? Your Chosen One would rather choke to death than let a Dark potion cross his lips."

"He must not know, Severus," Dumbledore said seriously. "He is hardly a potions prodigy. He will not question it, and his ignorance will protect his innocence. I will talk to Ms. Granger. She will not tell him."

Anything for Potter, Headmaster. You'd sell your very soul for him wouldn't you? Because he's needed. Severus nodded slowly. "Very well," he agreed. "I will see what I can do."

The old man's shoulders sagged in relief. "Thank you, Severus. I am sorry to ask. How long will it take you?"

A few hours. "At least two or three days, Headmaster. I will need to research."

"Will you need anything for the endeavor?"

Coffee. Liquor. "The potion will require the blood of a living occlumens, freely given." And there is no way it's going to be my blood going into that potion, you old goat. Do you know what could happen to me if it fell into the wrong hands?

Dumbledore flinched but nodded his head. "Let me know when you are in need of that particular…donation."

"Of course."

"How long will the potion last after Harry takes it?"

99 days. "I'm not sure," he lied smoothly. "As I said, I must research."

"Are there likely to be any side effects?"

He will be puking his shoelaces out every morning, and he'll have the mother of all headaches if anyone tries to scan his mind. "Only minor ones, but he won't be able to take the potion forever, and it will be impossible to teach him occlumency while he's on it. We will eventually arrive at the same problem we are now facing."

"True," Dumbledore agreed with a small smile. "But Harry will be at Hogwarts. That is what matters in the long run."

Severus couldn't bring himself to comment on that particular statement. "Am I dismissed?"

"Of course, Severus," Dumbledore's eyes regained a bit of their normal humor as he looked at him. "By the way, Horace Slughorn is returning to Hogwarts this year."

The universe hates me. "How…unexpected."

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I admit it was rather difficult to persuade him, but when I promised him his old job, he couldn't resist."

What? "Beg pardon?"

"Horace does love his potions, you know. I couldn't persuade him to teach anything else."

Am I being fired? "Really?"

"He doesn't have your skill, but then, few do. I hope you won't mind teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts this year, my boy?"

Snape had the awful feeling that he might be smiling. He fought to gain control of his features. "That would be…most satisfactory, Headmaster."

"Excellent! I thought you might be a bit put out to have only three weeks to come up with your lesson plans."

"I'm sure I can manage."

[][] Remus Lupin [][]

Remus had failed too many people in his life - James, Sirius, and now Harry. He sat outside Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, digging viciously into a triple fudge sundae. Harry had been missing since June, and other than a handful of letters to let the Order know that he was safe, no one had heard from him.

So what did they do? They watched. Remus, jobless once again, was almost always one of the watchers, while the others took turns when they were free from work. They posted themselves around Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, hoping to catch a glimpse of a disguised Harry Potter. The others were certain this would work. "Kid's got to get his school things sometime," Shacklebolt had said reasonably. But Remus lacked confidence in this assessment. Harry was smart enough to stay away from Diagon Alley, and even if he did decide to show, the boy was clever enough to do it in secret. An invisibility cloak would hide him from everyone but Moody.

Remus shot a glare at Fletcher that went unnoticed. Mundungus was once again heading towards Knockturn Alley. "Gotta patrol it fer signs of the lad!" He should complain to Dumbledore, again, but in all honesty, Remus didn't care if Dung spent his turn on watch bartering for stolen goods with the Knockturn lowlifes. The crook probably wouldn't notice if Harry walked past him wearing a nametag.

Remus was on his third sundae around sunset. Fortescue was an old friend. He got discounts. He watched the entrance to Knockturn Alley, waiting for Fletcher to emerge. Fred and George had the evening shift, from late afternoon until the shops closed. "Potter Watch" they called it. Remus doubted the twins would actually report Harry if they found him; he had suspected for awhile that Harry might be hiding out with the terrible twosome, but at least if that were the case, Harry would be relatively safe. He saw movement at the entrance to Knockturn Alley, and he stood up. Finally. He really was going to insist the Dumbledore take Mundungus off duty.

The person that emerged from the growing shadows was not Dung, however. It was a teenager, around Harry's age, dressed in a nicer than average set of work robes. Remus scanned his face automatically. Pale blue eyes, no scar. Remus sighed and settled back down in his seat. The boy hurried towards Slug & Jiggers, and emerged several minutes later with a bag that appeared to be stuffed full of empty bottles and vials.

"That's ol' Zatey Zate's boy, that is."

Remus startled at the sound of the voice right behind him. The smell of rancid alcohol and stale smoking tobacco should have given Mundungus away long before he got this close. He must be more tired than he had thought. "Zate? Weren't they a Dark family? I thought they were all dead."

"Aye," said Dung with a sniff. "That's the family. Zate's the Knockturn 'pothecary. Got hisself that boy as an 'prentice this summer. I amn't allowed in his store...didn't know those hissin' roaches were his when I borrowed 'em...but I seen the boy runnin' round the alley."

"Did you happen to see Harry running around Knockturn Alley while you were fencing stolen cauldrons?"

"Nope."

[][]Harry[][]

Harry grimaced at the palm full of slimy green goo and reached for the towel on the counter beside him. "This is disgusting," he said conversationally.

"Hmmph," said Zate, his expression disgruntled. "This is expensive, boy. Chinese Chuckling Cucumber costs a galleon an ounce. You're supposed to be peeling it, not smashing it."

Harry sighed and reached for another of the wriggling green tubes in the basket beside him. "We've been at this for the last ten days," he said. "The exam proctor is coming in an hour. How am I supposed to get the hang of this by then?"

"You're my apprentice. You'll do fine. Don't smash this one."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Mr. Zate, I'm not your apprentice. I'm the guy who cleans up the storage room and runs the till. The proctor's going to know."

"Nonsense, boy! Keep peeling."

The cucumber squeaked in fright as the small silver knife approached it, and Harry began to peel with fierce concentration. This was a crazy, stupid idea. When Zate had said he would take care of coming up with a cover story for Hephaestus Peverell's absence during the school year, Harry had assumed it would be something a little easier to pull off. Zate had stumped into the shop ten nights ago with a stack of parchment four inches thick in hand and told Harry, with a triumphant expression, that it was "every possible task that might show up on this year's journeyman apothecary examination."

"Errr...okay?" Harry had replied. "Aren't you a Master apothecary? Do you have to retake the test or something?"

"Don't be daft, boy! It's for you."

Harry had sputtered. He had protested. He had proved his ineptitude by squishing three dozen Chinese Chuckling Cucumbers, but Zate wouldn't budge. "It's the perfect excuse! Everyone knows that journeymen apothecaries have to travel. Got to head to the edges of the earth in search of new products. Once you pass the test, no one will expect you to hang around here or keep in touch. You can go back to being...well, you...with no one the wiser."

So they had practiced. Harry had never realized that there was so much technique involved with being an apothecary. There was a correct way to collect everything, a correct way to prepare it, a correct way to store it. "A good potion is half the work of the apothecary and half the work of the potions master," Zate had told him with a smug look. "Now juice that sopoferous bean."

Hermione didn't approve either ("Harry, it's cheating!"), but Zate stood firm. He had apparently bullied and bribed a large number of people in order to obtain the information about the test, and he was determined to see Harry named journeyman apothecary.

"What am I going to do if this does work?" Harry asked as a horrifying thought came to him. "People are going to ask me questions about shrivel figs and chuckling cucumbers and Eurasian blow toads, and I'm not going to know anything."

"That's easy, lad! If you can't avoid the question, just insult the questioner."

"What?"

"Go on. Ask me a question," Zate urged him.

Harry sighed. "Alright. How does grinding a billywig stinger change its function in a potion?"

"Shut up, you nitwit! It's obvious you haven't got the faintest idea what a billywig is. If I had a stinger right now, I'd shove it up your nose to give you some practical experience!" Zate smiled. "See?" he said. "It works every time!"

Harry was now absolutely positive that Zate was going senile. "At least that won't be a problem," he muttered to himself. "I'll never pass the test."

The proctor showed up right on time. Harry passed with flying colors.

[][][]Dumbledore[][][]

The Headmaster's office was quiet except for the faint whirring and ticking sounds of the delicate silver instruments that covered every surface. Albus Dumbledore stood at the window and looked out over the grounds as the sun rose, painting the tops of the trees in the Forbidden Forest with a golden glow. Another sleepless night ended, and a new day began.

Students would be arriving in just a few days. The castle had been cleaned meticulously over the past weeks. It was warded down to the last flagstone. The teachers had submitted requests for supplies. Prefects had been assigned. Madame Pomfrey was back from her vacation in Spain. Mr. Filch had finished his detailed catalogue of all the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products that would be forbidden in the coming term.

All in all, everything was much the same as it always was at the beginning of a new school year. The few differences, however, were profound. A small number of students would not be returning, most of them muggleborn or from families that had dual citizenship in other wizarding countries. A permanent MLE presence had been established; there would be two aurors patrolling the school at all times. Dumbledore had selected the aurors himself without so much as a squeak of protest from the Ministry. His political influence had never been higher, and even Scrimgeour, a much stronger leader the Cornelius Fudge had been, was walking on eggshells around him.

Dumbledore glanced down at his blackened hand and sighed. Old age had come with more than just sleepless nights. He was making mistakes. Not a new experience for him by any means, but still one he had never become accustomed to. He had told Severus the truth about Harry, the truth about Harry's fate in this war. For a man who professed to hate the boy with a passion, Severus had not taken the news well at all. The Potions Master's response had been so honestly appalled that Dumbledore found himself confronted with more doubt than he had felt in many years.

And he did not have the time to doubt himself now, not with his own end so near and the war just beginning. He had a school to protect, a nation, a world. It would be...exceedingly selfish...to forget that. Sometimes, a single person could not be saved, no matter how singularly special that one person might be. For the Greater Good - the comfort of monsters, the conscience of saints. An inescapable grief.

[][] Draco [][]

It hurt. More than anything he'd ever experienced, more than physical pain. It hurt. It was an agony of the flesh that somehow sank hooks into his soul, and Father and Severus hadn't told him it would be like this. A burning pain, they had said. Intense but momentary, they had promised.

But as the black mark oozed from the wand that was pressed to his pale forearm, it felt like something poisonous was seeping into him. It should have been alright. He had been expecting this for months. This was servitude. He knew that. It was also necessary, no option, safe for mother and father and me, just a mark, a tattoo, a promise that could be broken, a chance for revenge, a chance for redemption, a burden to bear, the only way. He knew all of that, and it shouldn't have hurt like this.

But it did.


	29. The Hogwarts Express

Chapter 29: The Hogwarts Express

Harry Potter - Savior of the wizarding world, the Chosen One, Dark wizard, and vanquisher of Lord Voldemort - had squished himself into the small space between a rack of free Underground brochures and maps and the brick wall behind it. Crouched down with aching knees and sharing his impromptu hiding place with his school trunk, he was grateful that he'd had the foresight to let Hedwig make her own way to Hogwarts. Harry had shifted a couple of brochures so that he could spy unobtrusively on the entrance to Platform 9 3/4 , but so far he hadn't spotted the bushy brown head that would signal Hermione's return. He wished she would hurry. A muggle was bound to spot him eventually, and then how would he explain himself?

Five minutes later, just as the ache in his knees was getting so bad he thought he'd have to move for sure, Hermione appeared looking pale and frazzled. Her blouse was a bit more rumpled than it had been when she left. She made her way over to the brochure rack.

"I was right," she said. "It's a complete madhouse on the platform. Reporters and ministry people everywhere. I almost couldn't get through to the train."

Harry swore. "This is ridiculous! We're two hours early."

Hermione sighed. "Honestly, Harry, we should have expected it." She grimaced. "It's a bit worse than I imagined though," she admitted. "I think some of them might have actually been camped out last night. I was swamped with questions the moment I stepped through the barrier; if you had come too it would have been impossible."

"Shouldn't this be illegal or something?" Harry muttered. "Harassment of a minor? Trespass on Hogwarts property?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The platform is probably public property, Harry. They're not actually on the train." She squinted through the brochures at him. "I'm pretty sure you can come out now. None of them followed me back through the barrier."

Harry stood up. "So what am I supposed to do?" he said. "Smile for the cameras and plow my way through?"

"That's the Gryffindor spirit, Harry. You just run along, and give Rita Skeeter a big cheesy grin." She smiled at his expression. "Stop glaring. I said I'd figure something out, didn't I?"

"You have a plan?" he asked hopefully. Hermione gave him a scornful look. "Right, of course you do."

"Now, listen," she said in her most business like voice. "Several of the Order members are here. Tonks helped me get my things onto the Express. I told her I had spotted you on my way into the station, and that I was worried you couldn't get through."

"How'd she take it?" Harry interrupted. He had tried to imagine the response of everyone to his reappearance, but he didn't quite know what to expect. He was hoping that he wouldn't be facing a squad of auror interrogators and a double dose of veritaserum.

"She seemed rather relieved," said Hermione. "You know how Tonks is. Anyway, she said she'd put the word out. You can leave your trunk out here with me and use your invisibility cloak to sneak onto the platform. She said to make sure you give Moody a wave, so they know you're safely on the train."

"That's it?" Harry was impressed. "That sounds too easy. No questions? No freaking out?"

"Well the Order is trying to protect you, Harry. They can't do that very well if you're being mobbed by reporters."

Harry rummaged through his trunk for his cloak while Hermione kept watch for curious muggles and crazed reporters. "Got it!" he announced as he pulled the silvery material out from under his now well-read copy of Basic Rituals.

"Good. Now let me look you over before you go." Hermione inspected him from head to toe, focusing for several long seconds on his face.

"Everything alright?" he asked a bit anxiously.

Hermione nodded decisively. "Yes. I can't tell you've got any makeup on your face. Just don't rub at it too much. I'm not sure how well that sticking charm is going to hold up over the long run."

"Right," said Harry. It had been a rather painstaking process to learn to cover the mark to his satisfaction. Every time he managed to make it invisible, Hermione had been able to tell he had put something on his face. He'd finally gotten the hang of it over the last few days though.

"Is your potion working?" Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose so," he said. "I don't feel any different, but Snape made it. We kind of have to assume it works don't we?" He had had the mind protection potion for more than a week, but he hadn't taken it until breakfast at the Doxy Closet this morning. His mouth still tasted like tar. He and Hermione had agreed that they wanted as much time as possible before they had to readdress the occlumency issue. Ninety-nine days was ages. Anything could happen in that much time.

"Remember, you don't know it's a Dark potion," Hermione reminded him for the fourth time. "I promised Dumbledore I wouldn't ever let you find out."

Harry couldn't help the small snort of laughter that escaped him. "Right. I've got to stay innocent of nasty Dark magic."

"Exactly," Hermione said firmly. "Now get moving before Tonks comes looking for you. My luggage is in one of the last compartments. I'll join you later. I'm going to wait for the Weasleys to show up and get on the train with them. I need a buffer before I try that again."

Harry threw the cloak over himself, and with a whispered "Thank you" to Hermione he headed toward the barrier.

[][][]

Hermione had understated the situation. A throng of reporters stood on the platform, all of them staring avidly toward the barrier he had just stepped through. Hermione must have been right about some of them having camped out during the night; a few of the cameramen were carrying sleeping bags. Creepy didn't do it justice in Harry's opinion. After a summer of relative anonymity, this frenzied attention was extremely off-putting. He stroked the fabric of his cloak gratefully. He was going to start sleeping with it under his pillow; he really was.

He threaded his way through the crowd, and as he approached the familiar scarlet steam engine, he caught sight of Mad-Eye. The battered ex-auror was standing several yards away in an island of his own personal space. Apparently even Witch Weekly newswitches were hesitant around him. The blue eye swiveled toward Harry. He smiled in acknowledgment, and Mad-Eye nodded. He jerked his thumb toward the train, and Harry scrambled aboard without a backwards glance.

He found Hermione's luggage in the second to last compartment. She had already drawn the curtains over the window so that no one on the platform could see inside, so Harry removed his cloak and took a seat. He shut the compartment door and locked it for good measure.

It was bound to be at least an hour before he had company, if not much longer. To his knowledge, the Weasleys had never made it to the station more than a few minutes before the train left. Would Hermione mind if he borrowed one of her books?

Normally Harry wouldn't have gone through another person's things, but he knew better than anyone else that Hermione didn't have any personal items in her trunk. Everything she owned, from the trunk itself to her socks, had been purchased this summer. It was actually more than a little sad to look through the trunk and see nothing but unscuffed shoes, completely full ink bottles, and jumpers with the tags on them. The basic potions kit still glowed faintly with the light of the sealing spell. Overall, it was impersonal and cold. He hoped she would be able to get pictures of her parents and other mementos from her muggle relatives.

Harry pulled out Hermione's copy of Advanced Transfiguration and Other Creative Magics, volume 1. He'd rather have the charms book actually, but it must have been somewhere near the bottom of the luggage. He wasn't surprised to see that Hermione had already gone through the first five chapters of the book and made notes in the margins. He flipped to the chapter on conjuration, which he'd gotten quite good at over the summer, and he started to read the section on theory.

[][][]

He had only been reading for fifteen minutes when he heard the lock on the door shift. Harry was out of his seat, wand in hand, before the door slid open...to reveal Albus Dumbledore.

"Professor," said Harry, feeling terribly off-balance. He'd thought he had hours, the entire journey to Hogwarts at least, before he would have to see the headmaster.

Dumbledore's smile was kind, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hello, Harry," he said. "Are you going to hex me?"

Harry became aware that he was gaping, and gave himself a mental shake. "Sorry, Professor," he said as he pocketed his wand. "I'm a little keyed up. I thought you might be a reporter."

"Quite understandable," Dumbledore replied with a nod. He stepped into the compartment and took the seat across from Harry. "They do seem enthusiastic, don't they? I believe Ms. Skeeter has been ejected forcibly from the train no less than three times this morning."

Still feeling awkward, Harry sat down in his seat. Best to get this over with, he thought after a full minute had passed without the Headmaster saying anything else. He cleared his throat, hoping he wouldn't sound too nervous. "I guess you want to know where I've been this summer, then?" he asked.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his glasses, and he pulled a lemon drop from one of the pockets of his canary yellow robes and popped it into his mouth. "I would indeed be interested in learning that information, but I admit that I am not expecting to receive it at this particular time. Unless you are in the mood to share?"

And Harry, for the first time ever in Dumbledore's presence, felt that he had a measure of control over the situation. The man did not know where he had been, and he had no way of discovering it unless Harry chose to tell him. He could not read Harry's mind, thanks to Snape's potion, and Harry had lost much of the affection that would have made it possible in previous years for the Headmaster to guilt him into a confession. Furthermore, as he had reminded Hermione during an argument over the summer, Harry hadn't actually done anything wrong by leaving the Dursleys' house.

He smiled a bit, and he felt himself relax. "Not really, Professor," he said firmly. "My guardians gave me permission to leave for the summer, and I was perfectly safe. I'm sorry everyone worried so much, but I'm not obligated to let the Order know my whereabouts. I did send letters."

Harry saw something like disappointment flash briefly in the old wizard's eyes, but Dumbledore said only, "Of course, Harry." His look became one of concern. "Your letters were, for the most part, a source of comfort to us. The last one however..."

Harry didn't have to fake his grimace. So that's what he wants to know... "I was a bit panicked when I wrote. I hope I didn't frighten you all too badly? I was so relieved when Hermione's package arrived with the potion. I wish I had known about it last year, before..." he shrugged. "Well, before."

"The potion was a recent discovery of Professor Snape's, Harry. It wasn't available to us last year, and I'll have to ask you not to mention it to anyone else. We wouldn't want word of this potion to fall into the wrong hands." Dumbledore replied. He shot a piercing look over the top of his spectacles. "Are you fully recovered? Have there been any incidents since you took it?"

He shook his head. "None at all. I feel great. I guess I'll have to thank Snape."

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore said firmly.

"Right. Him."

There was a moment's pause, and then Dumbledore spoke again. "Now, Harry, we come to the real reason for my visit. I am, of course, relieved to see you safe and whole; but I wished to ask whether you had thought on the information I revealed to you at our last meeting." His face was intent, and his gaze seemed to hold Harry like a viper's would a sparrow.

The last vestiges of the tranquility that had cocooned Harry like a warm blanket during the past carefree summer weeks vanished. The prophecy. He had never forgotten. How could he? But, the contents of Trelawney's prophecy had faded to the back of his mind since the end of his fifth year, and for a while, he had reveled in being...well, not normal...but at least he had had the chance to choose his own strange fate.

"Harry?" Dumbledore prompted.

He sighed in annoyance. "There's not that much to think about, is there? It's me or him, and we'd all rather it be him. Not much room for misunderstanding." Harry hoped he didn't sound as bitter as he felt, but the pained crease of the Headmaster's forehead led him to believe that he hadn't managed to keep his voice level.

"If that is how you choose to see it, dear boy..."

Harry stared. "Is there some other way to see it?"

He knew that there wasn't, and apparently the older wizard did as well; because he changed tactics. "Have you told anyone about the prophecy?"

Harry shrugged. "The Prophet's been speculating for months, so I hardly see how it matters. But, yes, I told Hermione at the beginning of the summer."

Dumbledore nodded. "There is a world of difference between speculation and actual knowledge, so it would be wise to keep the number of those who have heard the prophecy to a minimum." Harry opened his mouth to agree, but the Headmaster held up his hand. "Having said that," he said, "I think you might wish to inform young Mr. Weasley as well."

He blinked. "Ron?"

The Headmaster smiled. "The support of your friends has proved invaluable in the past, and I believe that both of them deserve to know the full truth."

Harry hadn't really considered whether he ought to tell Ron or not. It would require a bit more thought. "Okay. I might do that."

"Excellent!" said Dumbledore happily, as though Harry had agreed wholeheartedly. "Now, Professor McGonagall came by my office just this morning to talk about you. She expressed concern over some of your choices for the coming term, and since I was going to speak to you anyway, we decided to kill two doxies with one spell." The headmaster pulled out a sheet of parchment.

Harry frowned. "I sent back my school letter weeks ago. What is it she's worried about?"

"Though I doubt she would admit it, she seems most concerned that you turned down the quidditch captaincy. I must confess that I was surprised myself."

Harry nodded. "I was really pleased to get the badge, Professor, but with everything...the prophecy and all...I just don't think I'll have the time for it. Katie is the more senior team member, and I don't want there to be hard feelings." Not to mention the fact that Seekers didn't make great captains anyway. It was a solitary position, and the captain had to be focused on the game as a whole, which made finding a snitch difficult. Surely McGonagall knew that?

"A very mature decision," the Headmaster said. "But there is also the matter of your course schedule." He handed Harry the page he was holding.

Harry looked down to find his requests for sixth year classes in his own handwriting:

Harry Potter, Gryffindor

Advanced Transfiguration, year 6

Advanced Charms, year 6

Advanced Herbology, year 6

Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, year 6

Advanced Astronomy:

Astrometry, term 1

Astrologic Theory, term 2

Ancient Runes, year 3 (or 4, whichever can be scheduled)

"What about it?" Harry asked. "It seems pretty straight-forward to me, and I've got the OWL scores for all of these."

"Of course," said Dumbledore. "Professor McGonagall was concerned that you were not taking classes that would meet the requirements for your chosen career path. You wish to be an auror, I believe?"

"Oh," said Harry. Right, an auror, so I can hunt down Dark wizards. "My potions score wasn't high enough to get into the NEWT class. I only earned an E."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes, of course. Professor Snape's advanced classes were notoriously difficult to qualify for. However, our new potions instructor, Professor Slughorn, would be more than delighted to accept you into his class."

"What happened to Snape?" Harry asked in surprise. Was the Head of Slytherin no longer at Hogwarts? That would be brilliant! One less occlumens to dodge.

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore reminded him. "You'll find out at the welcome feast. I would hate to spoil the surprise. Shall I assure Minerva that you will be taking potions this term after all?"

"Thanks, Professor. I would appreciate that." Maybe after the summer with Zate he wouldn't be completely hopeless. Anyway, it would be too difficult to explain his sudden lack of enthusiasm for pursuing a career as an auror.

Harry marked the new class down on his paper and handed it back to Dumbledore. The Headmaster folded it and stood up. "I fear I must leave you now, Harry. My presence on the train would undoubtedly ruin the last moments of summer for many of your schoolmates. Before I go however..."

"Yes?"

"Do you mind if I ask why you have chosen to begin a course in runes and continue with astronomy? I never had the impression that you were particularly interested in either subject, and it is a rather burdensome load of classes for an NEWT student."

Harry had been prepared to answer these questions already, because he knew Ron would throw a fit about it. He shrugged. "I like Professor Sinistra, and Hermione's always going on about how fascinating her Ancient Runes class is. Since I'm quitting Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, I thought I'd try something new." Of course, astronomy and runes were both important components of ritual magic and Dark ceremonies, which were going to be a part of Harry's life for years to come, but he could hardly explain that to his classmates or the Headmaster.

[][][]

Three and a half hours after Dumbledore had left, Harry's compartment had been transformed into a riot of laughter, color, and explosions. Ginny, Neville, and Luna had joined him shortly before the train left King's Cross, and after their prefect duties had finished, Ron and Hermione had arrived as well. Colin and Dennis Creevey had invited themselves to the festivities, much to Harry's chagrin, and the brothers had by now collected several photographs of Harry making rude hand gestures at them. Ron had a pack of particularly volatile exploding snap cards spread out in front of him, while Luna watched him avidly from behind rainbow colored goggles that she swore allowed her to see a variety of invisible creatures. When they weren't nipping out for a quick snog, Ginny and Dean Thomas were dividing up a large stash of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products, and Hermione was fretting over the amount of prohibited items on display. Several other DA members had stopped by to congratulate Harry on his summer escape, which most of his peers seemed to think was an excellent prank.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle hadn't even stopped by for their usual mockery session. In fact, the glimpse he'd had of the blonde Slytherin passing by on the way to the back of the train had been the first time Harry had seen him in days. The ancient history class and dueling lessons had been cancelled a week before, and Harry had assumed that the Malfoy family had been busy preparing for the upcoming school year. But Draco had looked pale and rather strained when he passed by, and Harry wondered if he might have missed something important. He had forced himself to dismiss any concerns from his mind; Draco Malfoy had turned out to be a fair friend this summer, but he was not Harry's responsibility during school, especially not when he was surrounded by a group of ecstatic Gryffindors on the way for another year at Hogwarts.

All in all, it was a brilliant atmosphere, and Harry had been enjoying himself immensely until a few minutes ago, when he started to get the prickling sensation on the back of his neck that he associated with imminent danger. He looked out the window. They were passing through sunlit, grassy fields, and he thought he could see a few cows wandering around far in the distance. There seemed to be nothing unusual happening outside the train. Shaking his head, Harry forced himself to rejoin the conversation around him.

He was six moves into a game of wizards' chess with Ron when he noticed the vibration. It was slight, but the train seemed to be shaking more beneath his seat than it normally did. He spotted a glass of water that Neville had set on the floor of the compartment beside his newest plant. The short shrub-like plant would occasionally sneak a green tendril into the glass for a drink. Was the water sloshing more than it ought to? Ron took both of his rooks while he was too distracted to pay attention.

"Hey, guys?" he said after several more minutes had passed without the new vibration lessening at all. "Do you feel that?"

Everyone turned to look at him. "Feel what, mate?" asked Ron.

Harry shifted in his seat. "The train doesn't feel right. I think it's shaking more than usual."

They were all quiet for a moment, apparently trying to detect any anomalies in the movement of the train beneath them. "I don't feel anything different, Harry," Hermione said at last. The others nodded in agreement. "Are you sure you're not imagining it?" she added.

"Pretty sure," Harry muttered. He looked down at the chessboard and idly moved a pawn into the path of Ron's queen.

"Harry's more in tune with the atomies than the rest of us," Luna said in her most dreamy voice. "Maybe he's picking up their sympathetic vibrations."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Atomies don't exist," she said. Harry glared at her. Surely she had learned since last year that arguing with Luna about imaginary creatures was not helpful.

"Yes, they do."

"What are atomies?" asked Dean with a bewildered expression.

Luna smiled brightly at Dean. "An atomy is type of fairy so small that it can't be seen in the daylight. They glow at night, though, like tiny sparks of light. They're attracted to some wizards more than others because they feed on magic."

Dean grinned and shook his head. "So Harry tastes better to atomies than the rest of us I guess?"

"That's right," Luna said in a pleased tone. She tapped her cheek with one finger in what Harry guessed was a thoughtful gesture. "I never noticed them around him before today though. His magic must have changed over the summer."

Harry's muscles tensed, and he shot a look at Hermione who had frozen with a pink Bertie Bott's bean half way to her mouth. "Well, it's good to know I'm yummy," he said nervously.

The others all laughed as though they hadn't noticed the joke was forced, but Luna just shot him another dreamy smile and then went back to playing with her rainbow goggles. Harry made a couple more half-hearted moves in the chess game, then he conceded to Ron. He stood up and stretched. "I'm going to take a walk up and down the train," he said casually. "See if I can figure out what it is I feel."

"Want us to come with you?" Ron asked.

"Nah," said Harry. "I'll be right back."

He left the compartment before any of them could protest.

Harry looked up and down the narrow corridor to make sure it was deserted before pulling his invisibility cloak out from where he had shoved it under his shirt when Neville came into the compartment. The silky fabric could fold up to become surprisingly small. He threw the cloak over his head and began his journey down the train. He spied a number of friends enjoying the trip in their own compartments, and he also noted that the new first years stuck together in nervous packs. He wondered if he had ever looked that young. Towards the front of the train he caught sight of a portly wizard in a velvet vest who he could only assume was the new professor, Slughorn. The man had transfigured his compartment into a sumptuous mess of cushions and silk, and he was munching on some kind of candied fruit while a couple of second year Slytherins Harry didn't recognize sat nearby with uncomfortable expressions on their faces.

Harry made it to the front of the train, and he removed his cloak for long enough to buy a couple of cauldron cakes from the lady with the trolley.

As he headed back the way he had come, he grew more and more nervous. He was certain, now, that something was off. The vibration had increased, and while he wouldn't have even noticed if he'd been on a muggle train, the Hogwarts express had always run smoothly. Except for that incident with the dementors in third year. Harry was almost back to his compartment, when two girls stepped out of a loo right in front of him.

A red-face Pansy Parkinson was dabbing at the front of her school blouse with a wad of toilet paper, while Daphne Greengrass walked beside her. "That oaf!" Parkinson spat. "I hate him sooo much. Can you believe he did that!" She pointed to her shirt, which Harry noticed was stained with a large pale brown blotch. Harry hadn't seen the girl since Draco's birthday, but he now had the opportunity to note that she didn't have a blue mark on her face. He was unexpectedly relieved at this. Pansy was far from his favorite person.

Daphne sighed. "Greg's always spilling things," she said in a placating tone. "He didn't do it on purpose. The house elves will take care of it at school."

"It's criminal the way he slopped that tea about," the other Slytherin raged. "And in front of Draco! It's embarrassing."

Harry stalked quietly after them, relishing in his invisibility. Daphne, he noted, looked faintly amused by Pansy's misfortune, though she hid it well. "Half the house is crammed together in that compartment. It was bound to happen to someone," she said patiently. "It was just bad luck, Pansy."

"I don't see why we all have to sit at the back of the train," Parkinson complained. "There's a reason no one else wants the back car. You can't have a proper private conversation with anyone, and there are first years in there. I don't know what Draco means by it."

"You don't have to sit with us if you don't want to," Daphne pointed out.

Parkinson looked confused. "But Draco's there..."

Daphne opened her mouth again, probably to say something scathing if the expression on her face was anything to go by, but she paused suddenly and looked down at the floor of the corridor. "Do you feel...?" she murmured.

Parkinson was again focused on dabbing at her blouse, so she didn't hear; but Harry did. And he knew immediately what Daphne meant. The vibration had stopped, but it had been replaced with something even more disturbing. The train seemed almost to be rippling underfoot. It was faint, as though the natural rocking of the Express had been magnified by something, but it was distinctly wrong in Harry's opinion.

Daphne looked perplexed for a moment, then Harry saw her eyes widen. "Pansy," she said in an urgent voice. "We need to get back to the compartment."

"What?" the other girl asked, but Daphne had already grabbed her arm and was steering her down the corridor toward the end of the train. Harry followed, growing more concerned as the seconds ticked by and the new rippling sensation didn't decrease in intensity.

He squeezed himself carefully past an unfamiliar Hufflepuff girl who was peering into the compartment he'd been sharing with his friends and followed the two Slytherins into their own compartment. It was one of the large, open sections with several benches providing seating for many students. As Harry looked around, his stomach dropped. He hadn't noticed on his exploration of the train, but now he realized that with the exception of Daphne, he hadn't seen any of the Dark children in the other areas of the train. They were all here. Slytherins, a smattering of Ravenclaws, a couple of Hufflepuffs, and even a second year Gryffindor girl who Harry was fairly sure was named Hesper Selwynn. Three first years with blue marks on their faces were sitting together at the front of the compartment, clearly unhappy to be stuck with older students. There were just as many unmarked students of course; a lot of the Slytherins from fourth year and up seemed to be crowded into the compartment.

Under different circumstances, Harry might have been pleased to see the other young Dark wizards, but as it was, with the train behaving strangely, it filled him with a sense of foreboding. Why were they all together? He stood in one corner of the compartment, peering through the cloak, naturally seeking out the pale pointed face of Draco Malfoy. There. Reading a book. Sprawled out on the last bench with his legs up so that no one else could sit with him, with Crabbe and Goyle standing nearby like a pair of gargoyles.

Parkinson was bulling her way through the other students toward them, and Harry followed close behind her to avoid accidentally bumping into people. "Draco!" she called.

The blonde didn't look up from his book, didn't so much as twitch. Harry almost winced on Parkinson's behalf as she continued toward him. Talk about being unable to take a hint. Parkinson was persistent though, until she was stopped by Crabbe. "Says he's got a headache," the boy grunted. "He's not to be disturbed."

Harry couldn't help but snicker quietly. Slytherins were insane. If a Gryffindor decided to hog a train seat and refused to speak to someone right in from of him he'd be laughed out of the house.

"He didn't mean me," Pansy whined.

Harry slipped by while Crabbe was dragging Pansy toward another seat. Draco hadn't moved a muscle during the whole exchange. His back was to the window, his face was obscured by the book he held in one hand, and the other hand...his wand was loosely clutched in his other hand and pointing toward the floor. The position would have looked casual, if he wasn't so unnaturally still. He wasn't even turning the pages. And as another ripple went through the train, Harry found himself staring at the wand with a sinking suspicion. He wouldn't have believed it was possible if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, but he had found no other explanation on his tour of the Hogwarts Express. That was some seriously good nonverbal spellwork if it was Draco though.

Harry waited and watched, uncertain if he was right and not sure about what to do in any case, but as the minutes slipped by, the rippling and shaking of the train became more pronounced. More and more of the students in the compartment were starting to notice. They looked confused for the most part, but some of the younger ones were becoming frightened.

"Hey, Draco," Goyle grunted about five minutes after Harry had arrived. "Train's acting weird."

Draco looked up from his book briefly, and Harry watched in fascination as the hand holding his wand clenched tightly. "Don't be ridiculous, Greg," he said in a measured voice. "The train is fine."

His book came up to cover his face again, but not before Harry had confirmed his suspicions. The Slytherin was paler than pale, and the fine sheen of sweat covering his face spoke of an exertion that was at odds with his inactivity.

Draco Malfoy was cursing the Hogwarts Express.

[][][][][][]

Everything happened much too quickly after that. His initial impulse to hex Draco's face off wasn't very workable. There was no way to get off a spell without causing suspicion, and he didn't like his chances of escaping with his life if he was discovered by a large group of upper year Slytherins. Besides, how would he explain his actions to...well, anyone? Harry stumbled his way out of the last compartment into the main corridor, threw off his cloak and dashed into his own compartment.

Hermione, Ron, Neville, and Luna were all jammed against the window. The others had apparently left. "Harry!" Hermione cried. "Come look at this!"

They moved aside so that he could see out the window. The train was now traveling through rolling hills, but Harry barely noticed that. The air all around the Express was shimmering and shaking. Oddly harsh streaks of color flashed by the window, like a sinister aurora was trying to swallow the train.

"It's the protective spells failing," Hermione whispered. "Something is interfering with the charms on the train."

"Someone's cursing the train," Harry said grimly.

"What?" said Ron.

"How do you know?" Hermione asked.

"Makes sense," Harry said shortly.

There was a shriek of metal, and then the train jolted so hard that Harry fell into Luna. Harry heard screams starting up in adjacent compartments.

"Ron, come on!" Hermione called as she slid open the door. "We've got to calm the younger students and find the other prefects!"

She charged off down the corridor and Ron followed. "There's a professor toward the front!" Harry shouted after them. "Get him to help!"

"Harry." Luna was tugging on his arm. He turned to look at her and saw her pointing out the window again. Only this time what Harry saw made his blood run cold. Black figures were approaching the train from the sky. Wizards on brooms. Death Eaters.

"Get down!" Harry shouted, throwing himself and Luna to the floor. There was silence for an impossibly long moment, then he heard a series of loud Booms as spells found their target. The train was shaking so hard it was a wonder it hadn't derailed. Apparently the driver had decided that the best course of action was to keep moving forward, because the train hadn't stopped.

Harry scrambled to his feet. He had to stop Draco. But how to do it without starting a duel in a crowded train compartment? The floor of the corridor was covered with broken glass from smashed windows, and Harry thought he smelled smoke. He pulled on the invisibility cloak again and made his way to the back of the train. It shouldn't take much to break Malfoy's concentration, he thought. Whatever he was casting seemed to hinge on his ability not to lose focus...hence his need for bodyguards and isolation. Had the Dark wizards planned this? Harry shook his head. No, of course not. Daphne had seemed to realize something was going on, but she hadn't behaved as though she knew anything specific. Just the Death Eaters then? So all the Dark children and a lot of the Slytherins were together in the back because...someone had told them they ought to be? Draco maybe. Did that make any sense?

Harry pulled open the door to the last compartment, but no one seemed to notice that the door had opened of its own accord. Almost all of the students were pressed against the windows in varying states of panic, but Harry noticed that this part of the train hadn't taken any damage. So the Death Eaters were dodging it then?

Malfoy was sitting in the same eerily still position, though he was no longer holding the book up in pretence. Crabbe was gaping out of a window, while Goyle was trying to talk a group of the youngest students into going to the center of the compartment away from the glass. Harry pulled his wand out. He probably couldn't hit Draco with a spell from here without hitting one of the second year girls standing on the seat in front of the blonde so that they could peer over the older students' shoulders. But, if he could just cause the tense fright of the students to turn into full terror, even Draco wouldn't be able to avoid distraction in the chaos. Ignoring Goyle, who was actually being quite helpful in Harry's opinion, he took careful aim at Crabbe. It was a long shot to the end of the compartment, and he definitely didn't want to hit one of the younger students with this particular spell; but Harry had had lots of time to practice his aim during dueling lessons.

He took a deep breath. "Somnium atrox" he whispered. The spell was colorless, a barely visible disturbance of the air. Harry watched as it coiled towards the Slytherin, and he saw the moment when it found its target. Crabbe's face went slack and his eyes glassy, and then he started to make a low, keening sound in the back of his throat. He rocked back and forth and tears fell freely down his face. Harry watched, unable to feel pity for the boy now suffering under the effects of the living nightmare curse in the face of his own growing fear. This wasn't going to work, he realized. Crabbe's terror was a quiet thing, and he was hoping for something that would frighten everyone else. Taking aim a second time, he targeted a seventh year Slytherin girl who stood just a few feet away. "Somnium atrox," he murmured again.

This time he got what he was hoping for. The girl's face blanked for a moment, then she began to scream as though she were being crucioed. Harry winced, his guts twisting at the sound. Her eyes were focused on something only she could see, and she stumbled back towards the door of the compartment, still shrieking.

"Macy?" another girl cried out frantically. "Macy, what's wrong? What's happening?"

"She's been hit by a curse!" a small boy screeched, and he shoved past several other students, by Macy and Harry, and out of the compartment.

As though Macy's screams and the boy's flight had given them all an excuse, the others began to scream. Harry shot off a few silent stinging hexes to encourage them, but they hardly needed it. The students jerked away from the windows and started crashing into each other in their attempts to escape from the compartment or cram themselves under seats.

Harry was forced into a corner out of fear of being trampled, but he felt the moment when Draco lost control of whatever spell he had been casting. The juddering of the train ceased instantly, though the panic in the compartment continued unabated. The bangs that had been sounding steadily as the Death Eaters found weak spots in the train's protections stopped. Harry looked out the window and saw that the flashes of color had faded.

Sighing in relief, he escaped into the corridor just as a puffing Professor Slughorn burst into the compartment. "All right, now, all right!" he heard the man shout behind him. "Calm down! It's all over."

[][][][][][]

Harry did not go back to the compartment he had shared with his friends. Instead he slipped into an empty one near the middle of the train that looked completely destroyed. He locked the door behind him with a spell, then set about repairing the window and the seats with a feeling of numbness creeping from his mind into his limbs. He drew the curtains closed and sat down heavily, allowing his cloak to slide to the floor.

How could he have been so stupid? Had he really thought that Draco might be an alright friend? What kind of person could endanger a train full of students? He pressed the heels of his hands into his forehead as he tried to think. The presence of the Death Eaters, Draco's week-long absence at the end of summer...he should have realized.

It was a horrible, disgusting thought; and it shouldn't have shocked him (because he and Ron had been expecting it since second year hadn't they?), but it did. Draco Malfoy was now a Death Eater, and Harry Potter, Dark wizard or not, was still going to have to fight Voldemort.

He took several more minutes to collect himself. He raged silently against the war, against himself, and against Draco bloody Malfoy whom he had grown to like in spite of himself. When his anger finally ran its course and settled into something cold and bitter in his chest, he stood up, straightened his shoulders, and went to find Ron and Hermione.

[][][][][][]

"But it doesn't make any sense," Hermione said for the third time since they had all settled back down together. "What were they hoping to accomplish?"

"They're Death Eaters, Hermione," Ron snapped. He plucked stray threads from a rip in his sleeve. "They get off on torturing people. They don't need a reason."

"They weren't even firing lethal spells though," Hermione insisted. "They must have had some other plan."

Ron gaped at her. "Not lethal. Did you see that Slytherin girl? Did you hear her? It sounded like she was being tortured! And they say Crabbe got it bad too...not that I'm complaining, mind you. Couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke."

Harry was glad that Hermione was too busy arguing with Ron to notice his wince. Slughorn, despite his plush appearance, had proved that he wasn't completely incompetent. He had produced two vials of bog-standard sleeping potion for the victims of Harry's nightmare curse, and they were currently sleeping off the effects of the spell. Though the Hogwarts Express had received a lot of superficial damage, the students had emerged from the attack surprisingly unscathed. Other than the Slytherins who Harry himself had cursed, everyone seemed to have suffered only minor spell damage from stunners and mild hexes. The most serious injuries had been caused by panicked students running into each other or slipping on broken glass.

"It's just...strange," Hermione muttered. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her jaw was set in frustration.

Neville, who had been silent since their return to the compartment, cleared his throat nervously. "Maybe, they didn't want to hurt anyone this time." Everyone turned to look at him, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, there were a lot of attacks like that in the last war," he said. Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Neville seemed to realize that he'd never get a word in if she got going again because he continued speaking.

"I went to the Daily Prophet archives over the summer," he said. "I wanted to read about my parents, but I found loads of articles from the first war. They...the Death Eaters...were always going after high-profile targets, but they weren't always attacking crowds of people. They destroyed the National Quidditch Pitch in Dover, but they did it on a day when there was no game, so there were only a couple of casualties. They also burned down half of the stores in Diagon Alley at one point, but they waited until after business hours."

Ron frowned. "That just proves that You-Know-Who's mad!" he said. "What's the point in attacking an empty building?"

Hermione's eyes had widened in understanding. "It's not mad," she said quietly. "It's brilliant. Frighteningly brilliant, really."

Harry shot her a questioning look, while Ron sputtered in indignation. "Listen!" she said. "What do you think would have happened if the Death Eaters had blown up the Hogwarts Express? What if they had killed half the students on board?"

"Oh," said Harry. He glanced out the window towards the darkening sky. This made a lot of sense, actually.

"What are you lot on about?" Ron demanded.

"Ron," Hermione said in an exasperated tone, "the Death Eaters want people to be terrified of them; they want them to be afraid to stand up for themselves. They don't want people to get so angry that they try to fight back."

"So they attack the school train but try not to hurt any of the children," Harry agreed.

"Exactly." Hermione nodded. "They want to remind the wizarding world that not even Hogwarts students are safe. The train looks a mess. When we get to Hogsmeade station, you can bet there will be reporters there to take pictures of all the damage. People will know that the Death Eaters could have hurt their children, and they'll be horrified. But most of them will be too worried about protecting their families to even think about revenge. Some who were wavering will probably even consider turning to Voldemort for protection."

Harry sighed. "It's about leverage," he said grimly. "If Voldemort kills children, he loses power over their parents."

He and Hermione exchanged a long look, and Harry knew that they were both thinking the same thing. Muggleborns and orphans and kids whose parents were already fighting for Dumbledore's side - they were still fair game.


	30. The Swing of Things

Chapter 30: The Swing of Things

The first few days back at Hogwarts passed by Harry in a blur. He settled so seamlessly into his old routines that his experiences over the summer seemed almost at times to be something that had happened to him in a dream. He attended his classes more or less punctually, sat with his friends in the Great Hall, and endured the gratitude and mania of an ecstatic Katie Bell, who was thrilled to have been named Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. He played a game of chess with Ron in front of the common room fire while Ginny and Dean tried to distract her brother by snogging noisily. He humored Hermione when she asked to borrow his astrometry textbook, since advanced astronomy was one of the few NEWT level courses she wasn't taking, and during his Thursday break, he discussed the potential health benefits of dirigible plums with Luna. All in all, much about Hogwarts remained unchanged despite the state of the wider wizarding world.

Not that there weren't some differences. The attack on the Hogwarts Express had prompted a number of parents to send howlers, and a few students had been called home before the welcoming feast had ended. Even amidst the furor caused by the attacks, Snape's victorious ascension to the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was a shock to the school. A record number of sixth and seventh years had made last minute changes to their future career plans in order to avoid a class in which their former potions instructor was actually encouraged to cast spells at his students.

"I've always been very interested in studying NEWT level history," Ernie MacMillan assured Harry during their first herbology lesson of the year. "It's just terribly inconvenient that Professor Binns's class conflicts with Professor Snape's. Really. I wanted to take Defense."

"History's safer, you mean," Ron grumbled as he struggled to break open his snargaluff pod. "Snape's going to murder someone before the term ends, I reckon. Wish I could drop Defense."

"Honestly, Ron!" Hermione snatched the pod away from him and started to dig at it with a trowel. "Defense is important. More so now than ever. I can't believe everyone is quitting just because Professor Snape is a little..."

"Evil?" Ron suggested.

She sniffed. "I was going to say difficult."

Professor Sprout interrupted them before the conversation could get much farther, but Hermione still managed to argue for restarting the DA in between attacks from the snargaluff stump.

Harry reserved judgment on Defense class until he'd had his first lesson. Snape was, in some ways, as awful as Ron had predicted; but he was also, Harry had to admit, better as a Defense instructor than he had been as a potions teacher. After a few failed attempts to embarrass Harry with difficult questions, Snape settled down and actually taught...in a rather insulting and Snapey way. His nearly loving description of the Dark Arts, though it caused considerable unease amongst the majority of students and raised eyebrows from Hermione, was relevant to Harry's interests; and after a summer of dueling practice, he was no slouch at the nonverbal spellwork that Snape demanded (to the professor's obvious chagrin). The books Snape had assigned were rather difficult to read despite the detailed depictions of ghastly curses, but while Ron moaned, Harry found them fascinating. The mind protection potion he had taken before boarding the Hogwarts Express also made it possible for Harry to meet Snape's gaze without fearing legilimency. He could almost hear the other Dark wizard's teeth grinding in frustration sometimes.

Potions class with Professor Slughorn was an unexpected experience as well. The plump little man seemed determined to gather as many high profile and talented students as he could, and Harry often had the disconcerting impression that he was a particularly shiny bauble Slughorn would like to have for his collection. But, he was an extraordinarily good potions professor, generous with his attention in class and his supplies. When he announced during their first lesson that the best brewer of Draught of the Living Death would be given a dose of Felix Felices, Harry thought he'd misheard. The man was giving away liquid luck? Talk about positive reinforcement...Zate would have had a kneazle at the thought.

Slughorn had spelled the recipe onto the chalkboard when Harry and Ron had admitted that they didn't have time to purchase books, and the brewing had commenced with an intensity that Harry had never before encountered in potions class. For once, the steam that filled the room was all more or less the correct color, and for most of the lesson, no one's potion smelled like burnt tire. By the end of the period, Harry was exhausted and dirty, and most of his classmates looked the same. Slughorn made his rounds, suggesting improvements for the potions. When he arrived at Harry's table, he winced at the sight of Ron's tarry concoction, but blinked in delight at what Harry and Hermione had made. Hermione's potion had remained a pale lilac, rather than turning clear as it should have. Of the other potions that Slughorn had examined so far, only Draco's medium purple potion approached it for accuracy.

"Oh ho! Very nice, Ms. Granger. Top notch work."

Hermione beamed at him.

Slughorn tottered over to Harry's cauldron next and peered over the rim. "Gracious me!" he exclaimed. "This looks flawless, Mr. Potter. I daresay you've inherited your mother's talent for potions. Marvelous!"

The man looked so moonstruck that Harry almost hated to point out the problem with his potion. "It's too thick, Professor." He lifted the stirring rod for emphasis. The potion, which was supposed to be almost indistinguishable from water, was crystal clear, but the consistency was more like heavy cream. Harry had a feeling that something had been off about his mixing, because he had definitely handled all of the ingredients properly. He had tried to tell Hermione that the best way to juice sopoferous beans was to crush them. It had been on the journeyman apothecary examination, after all, but she insisted upon following the instructions to the letter.

"Hmm..." said Slughorn, poking at the thick potion with his own stirring rod. He stepped back to Hermione's potion, and stared at it for a moment. "Hmm..." he said again.

The tension in the classroom was palpable. Harry thought he would be just as happy for Hermione to win the Felix Felices. It was clearly a match between the two of them, and now that the rest of the class had been eliminated, he wasn't too worried about the little vial of potion going to someone who would misuse it.

"Mr. Potter's potion is better," Slughorn announced solemnly after a few more minutes of examination. "Easier to conceal a clear potion in someone's beverage than a purple one, even if it is a bit stout."

That proved once and for all that Slughorn had been a Slytherin, Harry thought as he slipped the Felix Felices into his pocket at the end of class. Anyone else would have probably picked Hermione's potion, because it would be more pleasant to consume. Slughorn, however, had assumed that the brewer would be trying to slip the draught to someone on the sly. Of course, he couldn't discount the fact that Slughorn was just trying to butter him up either. The professor had mentioned something about a "slug club" and dinner parties.

Other than Potions and Defense, things at Hogwarts were almost completely back to normal within the first few days of class, and Harry, to his own surprise, found that he was feeling a little smothered. Over the summer, he'd gotten used to a degree of independence and privacy that he simply couldn't seem to find at school. He had never realized before how infrequently he was alone. Someone, usually Ron or Hermione, was with him from the moment he woke up in his dorm room until he turned in after his homework each night. Though he had always enjoyed being surrounded by friends before at Hogwarts, he had a sinking feeling that if he couldn't get a moment to himself each day he was going to go mad. He hadn't been able to study any Dark magic. He couldn't perform any minor rituals, like the ritual of clarity, that he'd gotten used to using over the summer. He couldn't write a letter to Zate, or even Malfoy (who he definitely wanted to confront about the train incident somehow), without someone trying to peek over his shoulder. And when he absentmindedly lit a candle by breathing on it in front of Ginny, he'd found himself roped into teaching half of Gryffindor house how to do it.

"This is so wicked!" Dean had exclaimed after he made a small flame scorch the edge of Parvati's divination homework. "Why hasn't anyone taught us this before?"

"Where'd you learn it Harry?" Colin Creevey had asked as he stared cross-eyed at a taper on the table in front of him. "I thought only wizards like Dumbledore could do wandless magic."

Harry had shrugged. He felt uneasy about teaching them even this, but little magic wasn't exactly Dark. It was just...different, and largely forgotten. "I picked it up this summer. It doesn't take much magic, Colin. It's just a trick."

"It's not working for me," Ron grumbled. The bit of his own hair that he'd been trying to set on fire wasn't even smoldering.

"Probably because you've been spitting on that poor strand of hair for the last half hour. It's gone all soggy," said Ginny.

Harry sighed. "You're supposed to use a candle, Ron. The magic works best on things that have already burned once."

"Dean burnt some of my hair," Ron said mulishly, pointing to the singed spot over his left ear. "Wanker."

"This is so wicked!" Dean said again, as he made tiny puffs of fire scorch holes like cigarette burns in the velvet curtains.

"Yes, well..." Harry tilted his head as he watched Dean giggle maniacally. "Dean's clearly gone 'round the twist. If I'd known he was a budding pyromaniac I wouldn't have taught him at all."

After that incident, Harry was more cautious about how he used his magic in front of his schoolmates; but by the first weekend back, he was itching to escape and have a moment to himself just to think.

[][][][][][]

Harry woke at 5:45 on Saturday morning to the insistent buzzing of the alarm spell he'd set the night before. He dressed as quietly as he was able, pulling on a pair of jeans and a buttoned shirt that Robin had selected for him over the summer. He would have liked to wear one of his t-shirts, but he wasn't entirely sure which of them he might have worn in front of his Dark schoolmates over the summer. Maybe Harry was paranoid to think that they would even notice, but he wasn't taking any chances.

He stuffed his schoolbag full of books and parchment and everything else he thought he might need over the course of the day, since he was going to avoid Gryffindor house at all costs once he made his escape. After leaving a note for Ron to let him know that he would be "studying in the library" for most of the day, he pulled his Firebolt out of his trunk and placed it on the bed. "Feel free to borrow the broom," he added at the bottom of the note. "I'm not sure I'll have time to use it today." Harry congratulated himself as he exited the empty common room and headed toward the Great Hall. He was fairly sure Ron wouldn't be able to resist the chance to show off with Harry's racing broom, and he probably wouldn't even bother to check whether or not Harry was really in the library doing schoolwork. Hermione would likely notice that he had disappeared for the day, but he trusted her to keep her observations to herself. They had spoken once or twice over the summer about how he might continue his studies of Dark magic at Hogwarts, and she would assume, correctly, that he had needed a day without Ron's interference for that purpose.

Harry had never attended breakfast this early before, especially not on a Saturday. The Great Hall was nearly empty. Professor Sinistra was the only person at the head table. She sat sipping at a cup of tea with an absentminded expression on her face. A couple of Ravenclaw seventh years were murmuring quietly while they perused a copy of How to O Your NEWT's - A Complete Guide. Harry shook his head at the sight. The Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables were empty, but to Harry's surprise four students were already sitting at the Gryffindor table. He paused several steps away to take in the sight.

Hesper Selwynn, the only other Dark wizard in Gryffindor house, was chattering animatedly with Astoria Greengrass and two other students who Harry didn't recognize. Even amidst the bustle of his first week back, Harry had been keeping an eye on Selwynn. For one thing, it was a source of fascination for him that the second year girl had managed to hide her Dark status from the rest of the house. He was naturally curious about her. He had noticed that she had few acquaintances in the house, partly because she had a prickly character and partly because her friendships in other houses were uncomfortable for the other young Gryffindors. It was unusual to see her smiling and talking as openly as she was at the moment.

He scanned the faces of her companions. Ah...well, maybe that explained it. Harry couldn't see the left cheek of the older Ravenclaw girl who sat with the group, but the first year Hufflepuff had a mark shaped a bit like a swooping gull. They were all Dark wizards, probably taking advantage of the early hour to spend time together without drawing attention to themselves. On a whim, Harry strode towards them and took a seat at the table close enough so that they would either have to acknowledge him or stop talking altogether.

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully. A plate of toast and jam and a goblet of pumpkin juice appeared before him the moment he sat down. Apparently the house elves did provide food this early, just not the full fare. Harry had wondered.

The small group was staring at him as though he had spat on them instead of greeting them. Harry wondered if the Dark students always looked at him that way, some kind of kneejerk reaction to Potters or Light families in general, and made a mental note to observe them more closely in the future. Astoria recovered her composure first. "Good morning," she replied, then standing and turning to Hesper she said, "Anyway, we were just leaving Hesper. We need to get back to our own tables."

The Hufflepuff and the Ravenclaw stood as though Astoria had tugged them up by strings. "I don't see why you should leave," Harry said as pleasantly as he could manage. Honestly, did they think he would bite them? Or throw some kind of screaming fit because there were non-Gryffindors at his house table? "You've already got your breakfast, and it's not as though the Great Hall is crowded." He nodded towards their cups of juice and plates of toast, noticing as he did so that Astoria had waffles with whipped cream instead of regular toast. How had she managed that?

Astoria blinked at him. It was the closest he had ever seen her come to appearing confused, and he had to forcefully remind himself that none of the people he had become acquainted with this summer knew him as anyone other than Harry Potter. Still, though, he hadn't thought he had a particularly fearsome reputation amongst his classmates. "It would be a bit daft to go sit by yourselves," he added when Astoria seemed to waver.

"Too right," said the older girl after a moment's hesitation. Apparently the idea of doing anything "daft" offended her Ravenclaw sensibilities. She sat back down and started to spread marmalade over her toast with unusual vigor. Astoria and the little Hufflepuff followed her example.

The silence was a living thing. "Sooo," Harry said after he had finished his first slice of toast. "Who are you all anyway?"

"Morag MacDougal," said the Ravenclaw. She had short dark hair and even darker eyes deep set in her oval face. "Sixth year. We have potions together, Potter. Bloody good Draught of the Living Death you brewed last class."

"Morag!" said the Hufflepuff, his eyes round as saucers. "You swore!"

Morag rolled her eyes. "This is my little brother," she said, patting the boy on the head. "Owen."

Harry was a bit embarrassed that he hadn't even known the name of a girl in his own year, but he only nodded and said, "Nice to meet you."

"I'm Astoria Greengrass," said Astoria. "We have a class together as well. We're both in ..."

"Fourth year Ancient Runes," Harry interrupted. "I noticed. Good to meet you too." He smiled at her, and she narrowed her eyes at him as though she were trying to find some kind of ulterior motive in the gesture.

"Why are you in a fourth year class?" Hesper asked.

Harry swallowed his toast. "It was the only Ancient Runes course that would fit with my schedule. Runes isn't as progressive as some other classes, so it's not a big deal. I'm not going for an OWL or NEWT in it anyway."

The mismatched little group eventually settled back into their comfortable conversation, which seemed to be focused on giving Owen MacDougal pointers about his first year at Hogwarts, and Harry only occasionally interjected his own opinion. A couple more students drifted into the Great Hall, yawning, and Harry was just considering leaving when Owen spoke to the others in a tremulous voice. "The professors have all been nice so far, but Professor Snape is a little..." his mumbling became incomprehensible.

"A little what?" asked Morag.

Owen blushed. "Well, I just thought he'd be nicer considering..." he trailed off and shot a nervous glance at Harry. "But he's scary. He made Nelly Perks cry on the first day of class."

"Perks is a baby," said Hesper. "The professor isn't half bad now. You should have seen him when he taught potions. Anyway, you know we don't have to worry about him."

Astoria shook her head. "I don't know about that," she said. "He expects even more from his defense classes than he did from his potions class. He told my class that we had to produce a corporeal patronus by the end of the year if we want to earn an exceeds expectations."

"But you're a fourth year!" Hesper protested. "Even some fully qualified wizards can't cast that spell."

Harry had to admit that requiring corporeal patronuses seemed to be a bit extreme even for Snape. Then again, he wondered if Snape wasn't doing it just to prove that Harry wasn't special because of his Defense Against the Dark Arts abilities. Surely he's not that petty, he thought, but he had to admit that the depths of Snape's loathing for him had led the man to make irrational decisions before.

"I know," Astoria sighed. "Daphne can't even make one, and she's fairly skilled with charms."

Well, Hermione had been hounding him to recommit to the DA, hadn't she? Harry made a snap decision. "I can teach you a patronus," he offered.

They all turned to look at him, startled expressions on their faces. "Thanks, but I think I can learn it on my own by the end of the year," Astoria said after a pause. "I don't need tutoring."

"Not tutoring exactly," said Harry. "Last year we had a... a club of sorts, called the DA. A lot of students got together to study defense because Umbridge was completely useless. I'm starting it up again this term." He wasn't entirely sure why he wanted to recruit this group for the DA, but he did. It would be interesting to have them involved with the defense group, and they might be able to contribute ideas Harry wouldn't have thought of. Not to mention the fact that it would give him an excuse to spend time with other Dark wizards without anyone becoming suspicious.

"I heard about that," said Morag in a skeptical voice. "Loony Lovegood mentioned your group after Umbridge broke it up. Doesn't DA stand for Dumbledore's Army?"

He could see why they might not be keen on the idea. "We were calling it that," he admitted. "But we were thumbing our noses at the Ministry of Magic with that name. It's properly called the Defense Association." Or it would be as soon as he told Hermione to rename it. He wasn't too chuffed to be thought of as Dumbledore's junior general these days. "Anyway," he continued, "you're welcome to come to the meetings if you want. A lot of people learned patroni last year, but some of them still need work. We'll definitely be practicing them."

"All of us?" Hesper asked pugnaciously.

Harry glanced at her. "Of course," he said. "It'll be an open group this year, since we don't have to worry about Umbridge interfering. Anyone can come who wants to learn."

Morag and Astoria exchanged a long look that Harry couldn't decipher. "We'll think about it," Astoria said at last. "Thanks for the offer."

Harry shrugged. "Just find me and let me know when you decide so that I can tell you where the meeting is. I've got to head off now." He stood up, nodded to them, and left the Great Hall.

[][][][][][]

Dear Mr. Zate,

I know you'll be shocked to hear it, but everything is going well. Did you find anyone to replace me at the shop? Being a journeyman apothecary is more difficult than I ever expected. I sometimes feel that I'm being pulled in a hundred directions at once, and I can barely find a moment to be myself here.

I'm indebted to you for all of your help over the summer, so it may be inappropriate to ask further favors, but I would appreciate it very much if you could send me some reading material to replace the lessons that I enjoyed with you and our other acquaintances. The local library is lacking in that sort of information. I'll pay you back. There is a rather unique forest nearby. Would you like any ingredients from it?

Take care.

HP

Draco,

I haven't heard from you in two weeks, so I thought I'd break the silence and write first. How are you doing? Are your Hogwarts classes going well? I'm enjoying my travels as a journeyman apothecary, but I haven't been able to ignore the increasing unrest in Britain. I heard that there was an attack on your school train, and I was worried. I can't imagine why anyone would want to terrorize children.

I hope you don't think I'm being melodramatic to say it, but these are dark times. I am afraid that new friendships have a way of becoming lost in the turmoil of politics and allegiances. I hope that isn't the case in our situation.

Sincerely,

Hephaestus Peverell

To: Ivan Eeylop, Owl Master, The Office of Very Important Owls

From: Harry Potter, Very Important Recipient

Status: Very Important Post, Confidential, This letter is charmed for self-erasure.

Mr. Eeylop,

Please see that letters addressed to Hephaestus Peverell are filtered through your service and subjected to the usual precautions. Additionally, I would like to request that any identifying marks on the outside of post sent to Hephaestus Peverell be removed before it is forwarded to me at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Signed & sealed,

Harry Potter

Hephaestus Peverell

PS - The enclosed owl treats are for your Aphrodite. They're Hedwig's favorites.

Hedwig gave Harry a long-suffering look when he handed her the three letters he had just finished composing. He placed his quill in his inkwell and smiled at her. "Don't be like that," he said. "It's not my fault that I've only just now gotten a chance to do any writing."

She clacked her beak at him. Harry rolled his eyes. "You can drop by the owlery then, and pass Draco's mail off to Taranis. Make sure no one sees you do it."

She shook her tail, and took off through the window that the Room of Requirement had conveniently provided. Harry looked around the room appreciatively. He had asked for a place to spend his Saturday without being interrupted, and the room had outdone itself. It had transformed into a cozy sitting room complete with a large desk, comfortable armchairs, fully stocked bookshelves, and a sideboard with a pot of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits. A wizarding radio in one corner alternated between classical music and more popular tunes.

Harry had spent the majority of the morning reading through his books and practicing Dark spells. When he felt the urge to try something practical, the room provided dueling targets. After he grew bored with practicing, he had settled down to write to Zate and Malfoy. He wasn't exactly sure what to say in the letter to Draco, and every time he thought about the fact that Draco now seemed to be a Death Eater the room started to produce delicate crystal objects. It took Harry several minutes to work out that the room thought he might feel better if he smashed things.

Harry ate lunch in the Room of Requirement, then spent the next couple of hours writing out a plan for DA lessons. He wanted to hold the lessons here of course, and he'd already decided that he didn't want to be stuck sneaking around like they had done the previous year. On the other hand, he also didn't want the whole school to show up. He couldn't control a crowd that size, but he didn't know how to limit the numbers without being unfair to someone. He toyed with the idea of cutting out the younger students but discarded it almost at once. He'd already told Hesper Selwynn and Owen MacDougal that they were welcome. He finally decided that he would exclude people who weren't really dedicated to learning by making participation a little more inconvenient than it really needed to be. They could hold the DA meetings in the last two hours of the evening before Friday curfew. That would cut out a number of people who would rather start their weekend early, and he could also make attendance mandatory in order for someone to continue with the group. That would reduce the number of people who might want to come to stir up trouble. Surely they wouldn't be willing to give up every Friday night for the rest of the term just to annoy Harry. He'd have to get Hermione to make sure that there weren't any school rules that would conflict, but he thought it was a workable plan.

[][][][][][]

"Harry, there you are!"

Harry turned to see an exasperated Hermione wading towards him through a sea of busy house elves. He noticed that none of them made an effort to get out of her way and wondered if the Hogwarts elves were still angry about the witch's SPEW efforts. Harry was sitting at a small out of the way table in the corner of the school kitchen, enjoying a freshly baked treacle tart. The house elves had, as usual, been delighted at his visit; and Dobby had been more than happy to provide him with the table and the tart.

He conjured a cushioned chair and gestured to it when Hermione approached. "Nice," she admitted as she sat down. "I didn't realize you'd gotten that good at conjuration. Professor McGonagall is going to be delighted when we start to study it later in the term."

"Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr. Potter," said Harry, gesturing with his fork.

Hermione looked at the half eaten tart in front of him disapprovingly. " I guess I don't need to ask why you skipped supper. If you eat that whole thing you'll be sick you know."

Harry smiled. "You just want me to give you a piece. Well, you can't have it. It's all mine. Dobby said so." He took a huge bite out of the tart and chewed it exaggeratedly. "Were you looking for me?" he asked after he swallowed. "I've been hiding all day."

She sighed. "Yes, I noticed. I've been trying to find you since this afternoon. Ron broke his arm, and he's being an infant about it. If you don't go see him in the hospital wing before curfew he's going to be impossible to live with."

"How did he break his arm?"

Hermione gave him a critical look. "You gave Ron your broom. Your very fancy, international standard racing broom."

"So? I wanted to distract him."

She rolled her eyes. "You managed that well enough, but Ron was showing off...or, well, trying to show off from what I understand. And Seamus bet him three galleons that he couldn't do a Wonky feint."

"Wronski feint," Harry corrected her automatically. He had a feeling he knew where this story would end. "And of course Ron decided to try it," he groaned.

"And now he's in the hospital wing sulking," Hermione agreed.

"Is my broom alright?"

"Harry!" she exclaimed.

"What? Obviously Ron's not hurt all that badly, or we wouldn't be sitting here. It's a nice broom!"

"Harry!"

He laughed and stood up from the table. "Okay, okay. I'll take him a some éclairs. That should put him back right."

The house elves produced a plate of sweets in short order, and Harry and Hermione headed upstairs to the hospital wing. Half way there, Harry stopped and rummaged around in his bag, eventually producing the scroll of parchment that contained his plans for the new DA. "Here," he said, passing it to Hermione. "Take a look at this while I'm sympathizing with Ron. It's a schedule and some rules for the DA."

"Really? That's wonderful, Harry!" She unrolled the parchment and started reading as they walked. "I wondered what you'd been doing all day. I thought you'd be..." she trailed off. "You know."

He smiled. "I was you know," he agreed. "And it was brilliant, but I also put this together."

She nodded. "Has it occurred to you that it's a bit ironic?"

"What?"

"You, teaching defense against the Dark arts. All things considered, I mean."

Harry shrugged. " I think of it more like teaching self defense in general. Besides, Snape's teaching Defense against the Dark Arts."

"I'm surrounded by hypocrisy," she muttered.

Harry hummed in agreement. "I'm going to be an auror when I graduate. Ask McGonagall."

She burst into giggles. "Oh, Harry! I'd forgotten about your career ambitions. Something tells me that idea is going to fly like a lead quaffle."


	31. Building Bridges

Chapter 31: Building Bridges

A/N. I'm hoping the original author doesn't mind, but I changed the original title of this chapter. It was initially titled The Defense Association Part 1 by Raining Ink and the next chapter was The Defense Association Part 2, but I'm weird and that bugs me. Still, I thought I should mention that the author who actually wrote this chapter did not title it Building Bridges.

[][][][][][]

Hesper Selwyn watched people. She had always been observant, even as a young child, but the Sorting Hat's decision during her first year had ensured that she would have to take a much greater interest in the actions and opinions of those around her.

Bold as brass you are, dear girl! Only one place for a young witch like yourself, the hat had murmured.

Slytherin or Ravenclaw, please, Hesper had begged. All of her friends were in those houses, and her parents and grandparents had been as well.

Oh no, no. Those aren't right for you at all. Far too impulsive for Slytherin - you'd frighten them! And, you're a clever thing, but not at all bookish. Some people teeter between houses, but you, you're a Gryffindor!...through and through.

And so, to her own dismay and to her parents deep confusion, Hesper Selwyn became the only Dark witch in Gryffindor house. After a year at Hogwarts, Hesper couldn't really argue with the hat's sorting, as much as she might wish to have a bit more company in Gryffindor tower. In her classes, she had learned that when Hufflepuffs encountered something or someone they were unsure about, they tried to cuddle it into comprehensibility. Ravenclaws analyzed their problems and fears. Slytherins slinked around, looking for escape routes or planning sneak attacks.

And Hesper...well, when she was afraid of something, her impulse was to hex the living hell out of it. That freaky plant in herbology with the antenna? Mulched. That snotty third year boy who'd pranked her mercilessly last year? Two black eyes and a kick to the groin. And Professor Binns should have known better than to float through her desk with his creepy ghost body while she was napping during history class.

Hesper would readily admit that she was at home as a Gryffindor, but that didn't mean that she could let her guard down around her housemates. The Selwyns were a respectable family in the wizarding world, even by the standards of most Light wizards, but when her fellow Gryffindors realized that Hesper preferred the company of the Slytherins she had known since childhood to that of her fellow lions, they were predictably suspicious. So, Hesper watched people. Did that seventh year prefect suspect that the stitching spell she'd just used to patch her bag was a modified Dark curse? Had anyone noticed the little rituals she performed before eating or before going to bed? Could she run her thumb down her cheek to Greet Astoria, or was Nelly Perks watching? Being a Gryffindor Dark witch wasn't easy, but thanks to her watchfulness, she knew more about her housemates than they could possibly realize.

And lately, Hesper had been focusing all of her watching on a particular group of upper years. She knew a lot. For instance, she knew that Brown wanted Potter but would settle for Ron Weasley. Weasley wanted Granger but didn't quite realize it. Granger realized it, but she didn't want him back. Ginny Weasley was shagging Thomas while she waited for Potter to notice her. Potter was not going to notice her. That display in front of the common room fire during the first week of school was proof enough of that. Ginny and Thomas had snogged for half an hour, and Potter had thought that Ginny was just trying to distract her brother from their chess game. Unfortunately, in a school full of teenagers, the romantic interactions were the easiest to observe, and Hesper didn't really care about that. What she cared about was the fact that Harry Potter was different this year.

Other students and friends outside of Hogwarts often questioned the Gryffindors about what it was like to live with the Harry Potter, and Hesper had heard her classmates respond with all manner of praise, defamation and gossip. But to the disappointment of most incoming Gryffindor firsties, Harry Potter was actually rather boring.

Hesper imagined being around the sixth year was much more exciting if you happened to be one of the select few people involved with his adventures, but for most students, Harry Potter was absent from their daily life. He won their quidditch games and attended their house parties, but he always seemed to stand apart, buffered from everyone else by Granger's forceful presence and Weasley's love of the spotlight. Apparently he was more interesting in classes, getting into fights with Umbridge last year and backmouthing Professor Snape on a regular basis; but the vast majority of the school didn't have class with the Boy Who Lived, and he was never one to provide juicy details.

Daily Prophet articles aside, Potter was one of those people who just didn't give an observer much information to work with, so she supposed that most people wouldn't notice the changes. After all, Potter still acted more or less the same as he always had in public. He joked around with Weasley and his roommates, attended quidditch practices, and was a constant if quiet presence in the common room every evening. But something was off about him nonetheless. First there was the fire incident in the common room. Where had Potter learned to breathe a flame to life? It wasn't exactly forbidden knowledge, or even particularly Dark in nature, but it was esoteric. It was the kind of thing children learned from parents who hadn't forgotten the oldest form of magic, a clever and amusing trick that became entirely frivolous when one had a wand. Of course, half of Gryffindor house could do it now. Candelabras were suddenly in vogue in the common room in place of the usual lamps.

Hesper could have brushed off the fire thing, strange as it was, but then there was that morning in the Great Hall when Potter had decided to come down to breakfast alone at 6 AM. Potter was never without Granger or a Weasley, especially at meal times, unless they'd had some kind of falling out. And she knew they hadn't had any arguments lately or the rumor mill would have picked up on it. Still, the breakfast habits of the wizarding world's savior weren't really a source of interest to Hesper Selwyn...until said savior decided to interfere with her breakfast. She could tell by their faces that Astoria and Morag had thought that he was butting in on purpose, probably to make them uncomfortable and get them to leave his table, but Hesper had simply been confused. Potter didn't bother people or bully them or really even talk to them unless they approached him first. His rivalry with Draco Malfoy was the exception to his behavior rather than the rule. Weasley would have pitched a fit, and Granger would have reminded them all in her best gentle but firm prefect voice that sitting at another house's table was against the rules. But Potter? Normally Potter would have taken a seat at the other end of the table and ignored them completely. Instead, he'd plopped down right next to Astoria with an anxiously perky "Good Morning!" and inserted himself in their conversation. It was out of character, extremely so, and Hesper had been watching him ever since.

Not that she had to watch very hard. Oh no. Because for the first time ever, Potter had taken an interest in making friends besides Weasley and Granger, and Hesper herself seemed to be his primary target. When she got knocked over in the hall on the way to Transfiguration, Potter had miraculously appeared to help her pick up her books and parchment. He'd even loaned her a new bottle of ink since her old one had cracked. On Tuesday, when she was practicing charms in the common room for an exam the next day, Potter had wandered over from his premium spot in front of the fireplace and started showing her proper wand movements without so much as asking if she needed the help.

And if these changes in his behavior weren't enough to rouse Hesper's suspicions, Thursday afternoon's events were the clincher.

[][][][][][]

Hesper sighed as she left McGonagall's office following Thursday afternoon's double Transfiguration class. Beetles into buttons shouldn't have been too difficult, and it wouldn't have been if that Hufflepuff, Buggins, hadn't decided to lob spitballs at her every time she lifted her wand. And even the spitballs wouldn't have been a problem, really, if Hesper could have stopped thinking about how her housemates would have jumped to the defense of any of the other Gryffindors. After her beetle-button skittered off the desk for the fifth or sixth, she couldn't stand the snickering anymore.

Apparently calling Buggins a "plebian little bastard toerag son of a worthless minor family" didn't sit well with her head of house, though. Even if it was all true.

Hesper headed to the library to get started on McGonagall's punishment - one scroll of parchment on basic animate to inanimate transfiguration and one on the importance of proper language in Hogwarts classes. The library was surprisingly full for an afternoon so early in the term, and she guessed that the light rain that had been falling all day had driven most students inside. Seeing no completely empty tables, she scanned the room for friendly faces. Morag was at a table by herself in one corner of the library, but Hesper knew better than to join the sixth year Ravenclaw in the middle of what looked like an intense Arithmancy study session. Giving up, she made her way over to a table where several of her fellow Gryffindor second years were completing the herbology assignment for the next day.

Hesper set her bag on the table. "Hello," she greeted them. "How's it going with Sprout's assignment?"

Three of them ignored her, but Ritchie Coote shrugged and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his robes. "'sfine," he said. "You know anything about how to pot Panting Posies?"

Hesper opened her mouth to say that she didn't, but Euan Abercrombie interrupted her with a hiss. "We don't need help from her, Ritch. Anyway, the posies are in the index."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hesper demanded. "I'm not bad at Herbology."

Tessa Frobisher flicked her blonde curls over one shoulder and shot Hesper a glare. "You didn't have to be so nasty to Buggins today. He was just joking around."

"I didn't think it was very funny," said Hesper.

Abercrombie rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I don't know how you made Gryffindor. Always treating everyone like you're so much better than they are. Why don't you go find some of your Slytherin friends to sit with?"

Hesper caught her breath and tried to stop the tears she could feel stinging the corners of her eyes from falling. Before she could think of a face-saving retort, though, she sensed someone behind her and whirled around.

"Hi, Hesper!" said a broadly grinning Harry Potter. "I was just looking for you."

Hesper suspected that this was not true. Potter seemed to have been studying quite earnestly; his nearby table was covered with complex diagrams and a massive copy of The Runic Syllabary. But Hesper's classmates were staring at the famous sixth year with a sort of suppressed wonder, so she decided not to question his motivations for the moment.

"Really?" she asked, feeling out of her depth. "Errr...why?"

Potter leaned back against a bookcase and shot her another smile that was almost conspiratorial. "Since the rain's finally letting up, I'm going to the pitch to practice. I need a marker. You up for it?"

Quidditch was not a part of Hesper Selwyn's everyday skill set, so it took her almost a minute to process Potter's request and translate it into an idea that she understood. She had a vague sort of notion that a "marker" was the person who watched Quidditch teams practice and took down their training statistics. She had heard some of the boys in the house banging on about flight speed, acceleration, and turning radii. Potter's eyebrows tilted up in a way that Hesper thought was meant to be encouraging, so she nodded.

"Sure thing, Pot- Harry."

"Harry! I thought you wanted to go over the declensions of eihwaz?" Granger appeared behind Potter with her arms full of books and a baffled expression on her face.

"Later, Hermione," Potter said airily. "You know Hesper, right? She's coming down to the pitch to help me practice."

Granger blinked in obvious confusion and opened her mouth, probably to protest the sudden change of plans, but Potter somehow silenced her with a single look. Hesper was impressed by that against her own better judgment. Granger's eyes were calculating as she looked Hesper up and down, but she finally sighed. "Oh, all right then," she said. "I'll help you study after dinner."

The bushy-haired prefect muttered something that sounded a lot like wonky fainting boys as she turned away from them and began to clear up the table she and Potter had been sharing.

Inside of ten minutes, Hesper found herself standing on the soggy grass of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch and casting unfamiliar measuring spells at a swooping and diving Harry Potter. It would have been a bit terrifying to watch the sixth-year repeatedly plow towards the ground at breakneck speed if not for the fact that Abercrombie, Coote, and Frobisher had abandoned their Herbology homework and were now sitting in the stands with expressions of acute jealousy on their faces.

"The speed was right, but that was still three meters," she called out helpfully as Potter sped past her for the eleventh time. "You'll need to halve it." Apparently, there were very specific international standards for what constituted a Wronski Feint.

[][][][][][]

"But we have Quidditch practice on Saturday mornings! You can't be serious, Harry." Katie Bell was in fine voice toward the end of Friday's lunch break, and after following Harry out of the Great Hall and back to Gryffindor tower, she had proceeded to protest, loudly, the schedule he and Hermione had drawn up for the new DA.

"Honestly, Katie," Hermione said crossly before Harry could reply. "The fliers have been going out all week. You should have complained before now if you wanted Harry to change it."

"But he's my Seeker!"

Harry wasn't sure whether the possessiveness in her voice was flattering or disturbing. He sighed, "Katie, really, this is best for everyone. Just move Quidditch practice back a couple of hours."

"Hufflepuff's got it booked! Anyway, no one's going to want to come to a defense theory class first thing on a Saturday morning. Why not just have the Friday night practical?"

"That's rather the whole point," Hermione snapped. She had somehow wheedled a complete copy of Snape's Defense Against the Dark Arts syllabus for every year group from professor McGonagall (a feat Harry was sure he couldn't have managed), and she had spent the last two days going through Snape's lesson plans and cross-referencing them with Harry's own plans to make sure that they were, in her words, "complementary but not conflicting." Her hair was frazzled and she had ink smudges down the side of one cheek.

Seeing that Harry and Hermione weren't going to yield, Katie rounded on Ron. "Ron! You can't possibly want to skip Quidditch practice so that you can spend Saturday mornings at a..." She picked up one of the fliers and read aloud "...Preparatory Theory Lecture."

"Errr..." said Ron, looking around the common room for help."I told her we ought not to call it that? It's really more like a...you know...Harry explaining all the wicked-hard spells and hexes in advance so that we don't have to waste time with that bit during the practical." He looked very pleased with himself for remembering Hermione's explanation for the new theoretical portion of the Defense Association.

Katie's face crumpled. "Traitor," she hissed.

"Oi!"

Katie stomped off, muttering about changes to the roster and disloyal team members. "But he's my Seeker!" they heard her wail as she exited the portrait hole.

"Completely mental, that one," said Ron with a shake of his head. "She's like Wood and Angelina rolled into one."

Harry grinned at the redhead before turning to Hermione. "So how many do we have confirmed for tonight and tomorrow morning?"

"Twelve, counting us" she said succinctly. "Most of the old DA is returning. Obviously, not Cho or Marietta."

Ron snickered and elbowed Harry in the ribs. "Proof that you're a bad kisser mate."

Hermione glared. "Michael Corner said he wasn't up for it this year either, though I think he just doesn't want to be in the same room with Ginny and Dean. Zacharias Smith was banging on about academic obligations yesterday when Ron and I talked to him, but…"

"He'll be there," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "The wanker can't resist the chance to inflict himself on the rest of us."

"Yes, well," said Hermione. "He can come if he wants. Everyone else is pretty excited from what I've gathered, and they were all going to try to bring friends. I've had them put up fliers in the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff common rooms. But with the Saturday morning lecture we can expect…maybe 35?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully as he looked at a complicated spell diagram in one of the defense books that Sirius and Remus had given him for Christmas the previous year. He could probably handle thirty-five students without the club becoming a total madhouse, but any more would be difficult. "Do you think some of them will drop out once we go over the new rules?" he asked.

"Not any of the old bunch," said Ron confidently. "We were sneaking all over the place last year, and no one missed the meetings. They won't mind having to wake up a couple of hours early."

Hermione shrugged. "Some of the new ones will probably leave, but I agree with him about the veteran members. You've made quite the impression, Harry, and you know people like Neville and Luna and Ginny would still come if you required them to duel naked on top of the astronomy tower."

"Hermione!" Ron squawked. "That's my sister you're talking about."

"Oh, stuff it, Ronald."

"Oi!"

"Right," said Harry before they could start bickering again. Hermione had been a bit high-strung all week since they'd started planning for the DA meetings, and he felt a little guilty for letting her take on all of the organizational details by herself. "Errr…fliers are up in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff you said?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and I confirmed everything with Professor McGonagall; so as long as we have a faculty advisor and don't break any school rules, we're an official student organization," she paused, and a distraught look crossed her face. "Harry, you did talk to Professor Flitwick?"

"Of course I did," said Harry. Their charms instructor had been delighted when Harry had stopped by his office to ask him to be the advisor for the new Defense Association. He had given Harry free reign to plan lessons, even offering to write him a pass to the library's restricted section in case he needed to look up the counterspells to curses that weren't taught at Hogwarts. Harry had accepted the pass gratefully and tucked into his DADA book for safekeeping, and he had, with only a little bit of persuasion, gotten Flitwick to agree to teach the DA proper dueling technique as soon as he had the time.

"What about fliers for…" he trailed off, realizing at the last moment that he didn't want to say "fliers for Slytherin" in front of Ron. "Nevermind. Let's just keep planning for tonight. We're good to go with the unbinding charms, right?"

Hermione riffled through the parchment in front of her and pointed to the sheet Harry had been drawing up with his lesson plans. "Right," she said. "We know Snape will be teaching knotting spells and binding hexes to the first through third years this week, and none of us ever learned them properly, so it's perfect. We can start the dueling segment next week."

"Flitwick's agreed to demonstrate stances for us during next Saturday's lecture. He's an internationally rated champion, you know?"

"Wicked, mate!"

"Oh that's wonderful, Harry!" Hermione started scribbling frantically.

"I wonder if spells work the same if you're that short," Ron mused.

Hermione looked scandalized.

"What? I mean, that blubarba spell McGonagall was telling us about has to be cast with your wand exactly four and a half feet from the ground. Do you reckon he conjures a box or something?"

"It's buliarbus," said Hermione in a longsuffering voice. "And I'm sure Professor Flitwick manages just fine."

[][][][][][]

_Hephaestus,_

_It was good to receive your letter. I'm glad to hear that you're enjoying your studies as a journeyman apothecary. (By the way, I'm doing an end of term project on the acidifying properties of Throttle Kelp. If you could send me anything to help with my research I would appreciate it.) Where are you traveling right now?_

_Hogwarts is the same as ever. Don't listen to rumors about the attack on the Hogwarts Express. I was never in danger, and all of the damage to the train was superficial. Everything is under control._

_I'm sorry I didn't contact you at the end of the summer. I meant to do so before you left Britain, but I had some family obligations to fulfill. I hope you won't hold it against me?_

_We have a Hogsmeade weekend three weeks from now. If you're within apparating distance, why don't we meet somewhere and catch up with one another?_

_I hope to have another letter from you soon._

_In Friendship,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Harry sighed as he reread Draco's letter. It had arrived rolled in blank parchment that had been stamped by the Owl Office just minutes after Hermione had packed up her bag and headed to Advance Arithmancy and Ron had headed off to spend his free period with Seamus on the Quidditch Pitch, complaining the whole time about Harry's newfound penchant for studying. ("Honestly, mate. Ancient runes? With the fourth years? Hermione's infected you with her Hermionyness.")

The letter was, of course, devoid of the information that Harry really wanted; but he could hardly send a Howler to yell, "Tell me why you've joined the Death Eaters, you dumbass!" while Draco was eating tea and toast in the Great Hall. The hint about "family obligations" was probably as much as Harry was going to get via letter. He'd been keeping an eye out for the Slytherin during class time and in the hallways, and so far all he'd really noticed was that Draco looked a little frazzled all the time. Kind of like Hermione three weeks before a major exam. Otherwise, the Malfoy scion seemed to be keeping his head down. He hadn't started any altercations with Harry so far, and even though he'd hummed a few bars of "Pop Goes the Weasel" when Ron's evanescing solution exploded in Advanced Potions, he'd completely missed any number of opportunities to mock Ron's inability to cast nonverbally in Snape's classes.

Harry would like to think that the lack of conflict was a sign that they were all growing more mature, but he didn't think self-delusion was something he ought to aspire to. Draco was plotting something. Harry just didn't know what it was, or how bad it would be when it came to fruition. Sighing, he glanced at the clock over the mantle and stood up. If he hurried, he would only be a little late to Ancient Runes.

[][][][][][]

Astoria fought against the urge to scrub at her ear while she stared at Professor Babbling's plump back. They were going over Asiatic logograms today, and she really couldn't focus on the squiggles the professor was drawing on the chalkboard when it felt like someone had plugged her right ear full of treacle. She noted almost absentmindedly that Potter had just sneaked into the room (five minutes late) and taken the empty seat two spaces behind her, before her attention was once again pulled back to the gooey substance in her ear.

"Morag, this auditory putty is vile," Daphne's voice was perfectly understandable but a bit muffled, as though it was coming from under water.

"Don't be such a princess. It's a prototype. Father's still in the testing stage with it. And, it's not going to last forever so let's finish this conversation once and for all."

"This isn't a conversation." Hesper Selwyn's voice was more of a shout, and Astoria assumed she must have cut class and gone outside because there was no way she could be talking that loudly without a professor noticing. "This is an argument. And I've already won it."

"You most certainly have not!" said Morag. "You can't seriously be considering it. What will your parents think?"

"Professor Vector's staring at you, Morag." Draco Malfoy's voice was barely a murmur.

"Don't shout at me!" Hesper shouted. "My parents won't care if I join a club. It's a club. What do you think Potter's going to do to me?"

"Vector's got her eye on Morag," said Daphne after a brief pause. "I'm taking over as the voice of reason." There was a snort in Astoria's ear that might have come from either Draco or Zabini. She hoped her own, much more feminine, snort could be passed off as a sneeze.

"Probably," said Daphne in her most reasonable voice, "Potter won't do anything to you. He'll just be indoctrinating you against the Dark. At best, he'll annoy you so much that you start to avoid him and his little club of do-gooders. At worst, you'll start to think of him as a friend, and then one day when you need to eviscerate him on a battlefield you won't be able to do it, and he'll get you first."

There was silence for almost a full minute. Then Zabini's voice chimed in for the first time. "Um, okay, wow. I know I haven't been paying much attention to this little confab…I'm brewing a beaumaine solution in the student lab right now, you guys should see what my poor hands looked like after care of magical creatures…but did you seriously just tell a twelve year old girl that she couldn't go to an academic club meeting because we might one day need her to eviscerate Harry Potter?"

"Shut up, Zabini. This is serious," snapped Daphne.

"You've got PMS don't you?" asked Hesper, sounding almost curious.

"PM what?"

"Oh, it's a muggleborn thing, Daph" said Morag, this time in a much more moderate tone of voice. "It seems to refer to irritability, bloating, and chocolate cravings prior to menstruation."

There was a choking sound from Zabini and a pained sigh from Draco. "I am removing the experimental goo from my ear now," the Malfoy heir said in a tone that suggested his dignity had been irrevocably assaulted. "I don't want to hear the rest of this conversation."

"It's not goo. It's auditory putty, and if you take it out of your ear I'll tell all of our parents that it's your fault when Hesper joins the Harry Potter fan club. I thought, when I gave you the putty, that you might help me convince her not to do something so foolish. She's young and impressionable, and she'll be the only one of our kind in a room full of people who are training to fight us."

"Right," said Daphne.

"They do have a point," said Zabini.

"Hesper," Draco sighed, but Astoria didn't hear whatever else he had to say. Professor Babbling had turned back to the board again to diagram more logograms. She looked down to check them against her notes, only to find words she had not written appearing in between the symbols she was meticulously copying.

_Coming to the meeting tonight?_

The handwriting was untidy, quite unlike her own, and it had simply flowed into existence between eihwaz and setze on the parchment in front of her. Astoria was baffled. She looked around the room for someone pointing their wand at her desk, but everyone had their head bent to their papers.

_This is Harry Potter, by the way. Sorry to be writing on your homework. And, of all things, a tiny smiley face appeared next to the statement._

Astoria whipped around to look at Potter in shock. He smiled at her, and gave a little wave. She turned back to the parchment.

_We're doing unbinding spells tonight. But we'll go over the patronus charm in a couple of weeks. _Out to the side of this one he had drawn what might have been either a long-legged dog or a short-legged horse, though Astoria suspected it was supposed to be a representation of Potter's patronus. She'd heard it was a deer of some kind.

Fascinated against her own better judgment, Astoria picked up her quill. _Can you read what I'm writing?_ she wrote, because whatever Potter had done was something she had never seen before, and what if he could do the same thing during an exam?

When no reply was forthcoming, she turned around in her seat again. "How did you do that?" she mouthed, drawing a curious look from Misty Fraithwaite who sat at the desk behind her.

_Echo's Cage._

Astoria blinked. She looked at the words Potter had written, looked over her shoulder again only to see that he had his head bent to his work, and then she blinked again. Echo's Cage? That didn't sound like a spell at all. It sounded, if Potter wasn't just engaged in some obscure form of Gryffindor teasing, like the name of a ritual. Astoria turned the idea over in her head. The funny thing about ritual magic was that it was a bit like putting together a puzzle with a large but still limited number of shapes. Once someone knew all of the shapes, they didn't necessarily have to put them in the right order. They could swap pieces around to make a different picture. Ritual names usually just told you what main pieces were used, so, theoretically at least, a witch or wizard could figure out how to do something based on the name alone. Astoria knew how to make an echo in a ritual, and she knew how to make a cage. She stared thoughtfully down at her parchment, boring logograms forgotten, and then she began to work.

First the echo. She imagined that Potter must have already done most of the work of this for her. After all, from his seat he could probably see her paper well enough to copy her notes, or at least, the runic bits. She always wrote the runes large and spaced them far apart so that they would be easier to study. She carefully erased her margin notes and the random spots of ink, hoping that the clear rune diagrams closely reflected what Potter had copied, and then she meticulously traced Potter's writing in her own hand. Satisfied, she moved on to the next part.

The cage stumped her for a couple of minutes. There were several ways to make a rune cage, and she had no idea how Potter had gone about it. Finally she decided to just use the two most basic binding runes in the standard size. She etched these quickly all around the border of her paper. She sat back to admire the rather pretty effect all of the runes made when combined while she pondered what sort of thing she might use to empower parchment. What would Potter have used? She highly doubted that the Gryffindor sixth year had some kind of illicit stash of Objects of Power in his school bag. Maybe there was something he could have used in the advanced potions kit? Astoria's own year four kit didn't have anything likely, but who knew what Slughorn had the sixth years brewing.

Glancing around once to be sure that no one was watching her, Astoria casually scraped the pad of her finger against the edge of her quill. A single drop of blood beaded there, and she dabbed it onto the center of the runes at the four corners of her parchment. "In cruor, vita," she murmured, pressing her magic forward with a mental effort and hoping that the words were both vague enough and powerful enough to do what she wanted them to do. To her surprise and pleasure, a nearly invisible shimmer ran down the runes on the parchment, almost as though the ink was suddenly wet enough to reflect the sunlight spilling in through the classroom windows.

Feeling so inordinately smug that she was sure it must show on her face, she picked up her quill again and wrote, _Potter, why are you scribbling all over my notes?_

_Bravo_. Potter wrote. _I knew you could do it. The first DA meeting is tonight. Are you coming?_

Astoria had been so pleased with the challenge of unraveling Potter's miniature ritual that she hadn't even stopped to consider what she might write back when she did it. Her lengthy pause didn't go unnoticed.

_Astoria_?

Her initial impulse to tell Potter that they were most certainly not on a first name basis was halted by the appearance, in rapid succession, of an itty bitty ink dementor, a frownie face, the dog-horse patronus thing, and a smiley face. To add to the madness, little arrows appeared pointing to the faces and labeling them Astoria G. without the DA and Astoria G. with the DA. Oh, Merlin. This had to stop right now. She was starting to think that Harry Potter might actually be endearing, and then she wouldn't be able to eviscerate him in battle…unless she had PMS? She really shouldn't have had two servings of pudding at lunch. Sugar had always had a strange effect on the Greengrass family.

_Okay_, she wrote, because she needed to corner Potter now anyway and find out where he had learned how to make up a ritual on the spot when it definitely wasn't something that was taught at Hogwarts. Even though someone like that Hermione Granger might be able to work it out based off of the theory they learned in Ancient Runes, she had honestly never thought Potter was that smart.

_Excellent! Two hours before curfew. It's the large classroom right across from the fresco of Maniacal Madigan, just before you get to the hospital wing._

_Okay_, she wrote again. It wouldn't be appropriate to thank him, since she felt a bit like she'd been cornered into doing something.

She actually spent five minutes after that listening to Professor Babbling, and she was relieved that Potter had decided to ignore her now that his mission was accomplished, until she saw new words spilling onto the page.

_Look at your bag._

Astoria glanced down beside her desk. There, hovering just over her school bag, was a thick roll of brightly colored papers. Keeping her eyes on the Professor, she reached down one hand and grabbed it. She felt Potter's levitation spell (wordless, she noted) release just as she caught them.

_Fliers! We haven't put any in the Slytherin common room yet. Would you mind pasting them up?_

Astoria wondered if it was possible for a boy's handwriting to look perky, of all things, or if she was projecting.

_Sure. Daphne keeps the most adorable little heart-shaped stickers in her escritoire. I'll use them to post these all over the common room!_

Unfortunately, Astoria's attempt at biting sarcasm bounced right off of Potter's thick skull.

_Thanks_, he replied.

With just minutes left in class, Astoria was scrambling to catch up on all of the notes she'd missed when Hesper Selwyn's plaintive wail lanced through her ear canal. "But that's not fair!" cried the second year.

"What'd I miss?" Astoria whispered.

"What do you mean, what'd you miss?" asked Morag.

"Runes is fascinating today. I was distracted."

"We've decided what to do about Hesper," Zabini said helpfully. "Or, well, Draco decided really, but I think he only did it to pacify your sister."

"We also discussed the fact that the Professor is going to kill Blaise if he finds out that the Slytherin potion stores are being used to brew hand cream."

"I'm going to the DA meeting tonight," said Astoria. "Hesper can come with me." She could use the company anyway. A twelve year old might not give her much backup if things turned nasty, but at least she would know one person.

"What?" Four shocked voices competed with the sound of Hesper shrieking "YES!" at the top of her lungs. Astoria's ear rang.

"Oh, gosh, Vector must think we're possessed. We all just said that at exactly the same time," muttered Daphne.

"Granger's giving me the stink eye," said Morag.

"What's the…"

"Don't ask, Blaise," Draco commanded. "If it has anything to do with Granger and PMS and muggle terminology I do not want to know. Anyway, Astoria, we all just agreed that Daphne and Morag are going to trap Hesper in the prefect's bathing room during the DA meeting. They can entertain themselves with the faucets or something."

"That's ridiculous. Hesper's not some little kid you can distract with a swimming pool. Besides, if I'm going she may as well come too.

"Tori," said Daphne. "Stop joking. You can't mean to go to the DA."

"I'm going."

"No, you're not. No one is going," said Draco, "and that's all there is to it."

"You missed his speech earlier about Dark solidarity. It was moving," Zabini said.

"I'm going," said Astoria as she packed up her bag, "and that's all there is to it. Hesper, I'll pick you up at Gryffindor tower at ten before 8:00, okay?"

"Astoria Nadia Greengrass!" Draco and Daphne said together.

"Bite me," Astoria said.

"Hey!" Zabini sounded delighted. "I know what that one means."

[][][][][][]

If you were to be at Hogwarts standing beside the fresco of Maniacal Madigan (which you might have to do for a very long time if you happened to step on the bit of floor that has a habit of gluing people in place) on the third Friday of September at 8:00 in the evening, you would see a number of strange things.

A pale blonde girl wearing a necklace made out of painted golf balls is singing a song about dirigible plums, while a young woman with a quidditch captain's medallion pinned to the front of her robes is examining a highlighted list of her team members' class schedules. The bushy-haired girl is trying to organize a group of very small students into a neat line in front of the door to the classroom they are waiting to enter. There are a number of house elves waiting patiently in the shadows, carrying lengths of rope with complicated knots woven into them, and there is a tall red-headed boy leaning into the classroom and hissing in a scandalized voice, "Harry, there are Slytherins here." The Slytherins in question consist of a sixth year girl standing with a sixth-year ravenclaw (both several feet away from everyone else and wearing fearsome expressions), a fourth year girl who is earning wary looks from those around her while she sits on the floor next to a young Gryffindor, and a tall, dark-skinned boy with very well-lotioned hands who is examining his reflection in a polished suit of armor.

And just as the door to the classroom is opening and the students are moving toward it, there is a rushing of wings, and a small flock of owls appear around the corner, heading for their respective owners.

"Oh, look!" says a first year, oblivious to the surprise and unease on the faces around her. "Someone's got a parrot."

"Her name is Nefertiti," says the Slytherin boy as he takes the tube of paper from the brilliantly colored macaw.

And then they are all silent as they read.

_**The Daily Prophet: Special Report**_

_**Massacre at Maidstone**_

_**More than a Dozen Confirmed Dead**_

_The Ministry of Magic has just confirmed rumors of Death Eater activity southeast of London, in Maidstone. The attack seems to have been centered on a dueling contest sponsored by the millionaire Mr. Gregory Marchbanks, a professional duelist and retired auror. Mr. Marchbanks'competition was announced in this paper just last month, when he offered a 10,000 galleon prize to the winner. Mr. Marchbanks stated that the purpose of the contest was to "prepare a new generation of witches and wizards to fight the good fight. We've got to show them all that we're not going to take this madness lying down." During the last war, Mr. Marchbanks famously offered 100,000 galleons to the first member of the auror corps to kill a confirmed member of You-Know-Who's rumored "inner circle," which is thought to be made up of his most elite and influential supporters. Many assumed that this evening's dueling contest was a precursor to a similar offer of reward money._

_The Dark Mark was spotted over the Marchbanks estate at 6:00 PM. Aurors arriving on the scene immediately called for emergency mediwizards from St. Mungo's. "It was like nothing I've ever seen," said Martin Lassiter, a junior auror. "There were bodies everywhere. People screaming. This is why I became an auror. This is why we've got to hunt down Dark wizards. He Who Must Not Be Named is a monster."_

_Mr. Marchbanks and his wife, Nicola, are reported among the dead, along with duelists from around the world. Their son, Eugene, has been on sabbatical in Australia for the past year. The Ministry is working with the Australian government to locate him and take him into protective custody if possible. Updates on the situation will be available in the morning edition._

"Well, guys," Harry Potter says grimly as they all finish reading. "This is what we're here for."


	32. The Defence Association

Chapter 32: The Defense Association

The first meeting of the Defense Association didn't start off as well as Harry Potter might have hoped. The special report from The Daily Prophet had pushed the members into varying degrees of outrage, panic, and suspicion. And, when Harry finally managed to call them all to order and go over the new structure of the club, they were less than enthusiastic about the night's lesson plan.

"Basic unbinding spells?" Zacharias Smith scoffed. "What are we? Firsties?"

Considering the fact that Owen MacDougal had arrived at the meeting with several of the first year Hufflepuffs in tow for moral support, this comment didn't go over very well. One little girl actually burst into tears, and Hermione had to hustle her out of the room.

"If you don't like it, you can leave," Ron said in a hopeful voice.

"It does seem a little basic, Potter," said Daphne Greengrass. She and Morag had been whispering together over a copy of the Prophet, and he could tell from their body language that they were itching for an excuse to get out of the crowded classroom. "I've got an essay for Charms due, and if we're not going to be learning anything advanced in this meeting…"

Several people chimed in to agree with her.

"What about dueling?" one of the Creevey brothers asked.

"Yeah!"

"And patroni!"

"Last year we had the targets…"

"Even expelliarmus would be better to practice."

Katie Bell cleared her throat. "I hate to agree with them all, Harry," she said. "But given recent events," she gestured toward him with the newspaper article. "Shouldn't we be focusing on more powerful spells? I mean…these people were dueling champions, and I know it doesn't say how many Death Eaters they took out themselves, but it does say they were, well, massacred."

"Like Ms. Greengrass said," Smith's voice was so smugly self-satisfied that a few of the more creative hexes Harry had learned over the summer immediately sprang to mind. "We're here to learn how to protect ourselves from Dark wizards, not to teach eleven year olds how to untie their shoes."

Daphne's lips thinned until they were pressed white and when she spoke, her voice was frosty. "I'll thank you not to put words in my mouth, Mr. Smith. I had no intention of…"

"That's enough!" Harry shouted.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Tonight," he said slowly and clearly. "We are studying unbinding charms. Next week, Professor Flitwick will be demonstrating professional dueling techniques. By Yule, I intend for everyone to be able to cast at least a mist form of their patronus. But tonight, we will be learning the five basic unbinding charms with the goal of working our way toward the more complicated ones as the year progresses. That way, if you're ever tied up by Death Eaters you'll have something more surefire than a finite to help you escape. Not to put too fine a point on it, but as Ron said, if you don't like it, then mind you don't let the door hit you on the way out."

When nobody seemed inclined to argue more, he snapped his fingers. A dozen house elves trooped into the room at the prearranged signal, each of them carrying armfuls of rope.

"Now," said Harry. "Each rope has been knotted with a different type of binding spell. We're going to learn how to tell the difference between them and how to counteract them most effectively. So, everyone grab a rope and a partner and let's get to work."

The students' grumbling eventually faded into quiet murmuring as they poked and prodded the ropes with their wands. Harry went from group to group, offering advice when asked and demonstrating the different spells for the younger years. All told, there were thirty-one people in the classroom, and he thought that most of the first year Hufflepuffs wouldn't stick around for long. They'd looked petrified when he mentioned dueling.

At first, Harry avoided his fellow Dark wizards. He didn't want to let on to how curious he was, but after he showed Neville the proper wand movements for the second time, he decided that he was being too obvious about skipping them over.

He stood off to one side for a moment and watched them work. Hesper Selwyn and Astoria were working together near the classroom windows. Astoria had already managed to unbind all of the knots and she was respelling them so that Hesper could have a turn. Morag and Daphne were working on unraveling one of the few examples of advanced binding hexes. He'd had the house elves bring them along just in case. He'd actually planned to let Hermione use the elaborately spelled tangle of wire for a demonstration, but since she was still helping the tearful Hufflepuff clean herself up, Harry supposed the Dark witches might as well have at it.

As for Zabini… Harry blinked and shook his head. Apparently Luna was the only member of the original DA willing to extend a welcoming hand to the Slytherin, which wasn't that strange really, by Lovegood standards. What was strange was that the two of them hadn't yet moved past the hand-extending stage of their partnership.

Zabini was chattering happily and waving his wand through the air in loopy circles while Luna stroked the back of his left hand. The groups practicing next to them were giving them a wide berth. Suspecting that he would regret it, Harry walked over to see what on earth they were doing with each other.

"My own formulation," Zabini was saying as Harry approached. "The secret's in the treacle, Ms. Lovegood, I swear. That's what makes them so soft. The professor can be an elitist about it if he wants…" He waved his wand in another loop, and Luna's fingernails suddenly turned from a blinding orange to a delicate shade of lilac. "This one's called Passion Pansy, no relation to the girl by the way. But as I was saying…treacle. I know the potion's laboratory isn't a kitchen, but the treacle works you see, and if Snape won't let me write a paper on it for my end of year project then I don't know what I'll do."

"Shampoo," Luna said dreamily. "And I liked the Flame's Kiss better if you don't mind."

"Of course," said Zabini. Another wave of his wand, and Luna's nails were again bright orange. "Shampoo. I can do wonders with diri yolk, but the professor just doesn't appreciate the cosmetic applications of potions. I mean, obviously. The man could use a good exfoliator."

Harry meant to sneak away without involving himself in the conversation. Zabini and Luna were clearly a dangerous combination. But at the last comment, he choked spit up his nose, loudly, and they both turned to look at him.

"Hello, Harry," Luna said dreamily. "Blaise and I are making friends." She waved her hand at him backwards so that her nail color flashed in the light.

"Evening, Potter," said Zabini. "I have to say this club of yours isn't half bad, but you should really provide refreshments you know. And maybe an air chilling spell? Weasley seems to be working up a sweat, and he doesn't look very hygienic."

"Oh, Merlin," said Harry. "Knots, Luna. Remember?"

Both Luna and Zabini, still holding hands, looked down at the tangles of rope on the floor at their feet. The Slytherin sniffed, "We were getting to it." He pointed his wand at the floor, wiggled it in a series of curlicues and figure eights, and the knots all untied themselves.

Simultaneously.

Harry stared. "How…?"

"My mother orders her corsets from Levanne," Zabini said. "Don't talk to me about advanced binding spells until you've had to unlace one of those things." He looked at Luna. "Hair from a Thestral's tail. You can't imagine…"

"I have to go," said Harry. "Just…well, I have to. Carry on, I guess."

He spent several minutes watching Morag and Daphne work on the cursed wire, which was tying itself in tighter and tighter knots with their every attempt.

"I give up," Morag said finally. "Potter, make yourself useful and show us the proper spell."

Harry picked up the mess and stared at it critically. "I don't think I can," he admitted. "It's one of those you're supposed to get right the first time around or the difficulty multiplies."

"Fantastic," said Daphne.

"Potter, I'm a Ravenclaw," Morag said. "You're not allowed to give me a puzzle and then tell me it doesn't have a solution."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It did have a solution. You broke it."

"That's unacceptable!" Morag exclaimed. "Fix it, Potter, or I won't be able to sleep tonight."

"It's true," said Daphne, though she sounded more amused now than frustrated. "Morag turns into an insomniac if she can't figure something out. When she starts to fail exams from lack of sleep, she'll come after you. She really will."

Harry went through the steps of the unbinding spell carefully three times, but though they didn't make the knot any worse, they didn't improve it at all either.

Daphne was chuckling under her breath, but Morag was starting to look terribly upset. "Potter!" she said.

Harry shrugged. "Well, when Hermione gets back she might know what to do. But until then, I guess there's only one thing left to try."

"What?"

"Zabini," Harry said succinctly.

And that was how the first meeting of the new DA ended - with a baffled but delighted Blaise Zabini teaching everyone his sure-fire spell for unlacing expensive French corsetry.

It was, Hermione said afterward, completely inappropriate for a school setting. It was also, Seamus Finnegan said with a wink, the most valuable instruction he'd ever received at Hogwarts.

[][][][][][]

Harry was glad that he'd already put the rules for the new DA in place. Telling everyone that only people who had attended the first meeting would be able to continue with the group turned out to be a godsend. Between the first meeting and the second, a rumor circulated that Harry had given a lecture on how to get girls out of their knickers, and suddenly every boy over third year wanted to join up. The female population of Hogwarts, of course, was less than impressed.

He was hoping the whole thing disappeared before it made it to any of the teachers' ears.

The week passed by in a blur of tension. As more and more news came to light about the Death Eater attack on the dueling competition at Maidstone, the atmosphere in the castle grew grimmer.

At first, people were relieved to hear that Voldemort had lost nine marked Death Eaters in the attack. The Ministry pointed to it as proof that You-Know-Who and his followers could be defeated.

"They hide themselves behind robes and masks," Rufus Scrimgeour was quoted saying. "Because they don't want the brave witches and wizards of Great Britain to see the truth – that they are not invincible, that they are not innumerable, that they are not immortal."

It sounded good. Harry heard students repeating it from time to time in the Gryffindor common room. But then someone at the Prophet got smart and interviewed Alastor Moody.

_**EXCERPTED FROM THE DAILY PROPHET**_

_Alastor Moody: Optimistic? What do you mean am I optimistic?_

_DP: Well, Mr. Moody, many people are calling the tragic events of Maidstone a blessing in disguise. You yourself have said that you've come out of retirement as a result of the attack on the Marchbanks estate. Do you think Britain is pulling together a real defense against these terrorists?_

_AM: No._

_DP: No?_

_AM: I know a spell that will get the wax out of your ears, but I don't think you want me to use it._

_DP: But don't you think…_

_AM: I came out of retirement because things are getting out of hand. Thirteen people dead, six of them internationally ranked duelists, and you're relieved because a few Death Eaters bit it with them._

_DP: I know but considering the fact that You-Know-Who himself was reportedly at Maidstone…_

_AM: And I examined the profiles. Of the dead Death Eaters. The Ministry's not releasing the names yet, but one of them…one of nine mind you…might have been more important to You-Know-Who than the color of the Minister's socks._

_DP: Sir?_

_AM: They were magically weak. Brainless thugs. Petty criminals. Distractions._

_DP: I'm not sure I understand, Auror Moody._

_AM: That doesn't surprise me. Let me spell it out. I'm telling you that You-Know-Who went to Maidstone – yes, he was definitely there in person – and massacred the participants in a high-profile dueling competition, and all he lost was some cannon fodder._

_DP: So you think the Death Eaters are already just as powerful as they were at the end of the last war?_

_AM: The Death Eaters? No, of course not. We had some of their best Kissed, you know. It will take them a while to recover their numbers. But You-Know-Who…now I'd like to know what that one's been up to. He's different. He's stronger._

_DP: Are you saying that there's no hope?_

_AM: I don't like you very much. Let's not do this again. I'm saying that he's different and that he's stronger. He's also more insane. And that's good for us. A little crazy helped him in the last war, but a lot of crazy will have him making mistakes. If the latest crop of auror recruits weren't such twits we might be able to make use of that…_

The Auror Office had printed a response and an apology the next day, trying to pass off Moody's comments as the result of his well-documented paranoia, but the damage was done. The few people who didn't want to join the DA for absurd reasons, wanted to join so that they could protect themselves from Death Eaters.

"I'm sorry," Harry said uncomfortably for what felt like the millionth time on Thursday. They were running late for Advanced Charms. "We've already started meetings, and we're not accepting new members. Maybe after winter holidays."

The fourth year, a girl Harry had never met before named Ermintrude, left wiping her eyes on the sleeves of her robes. He let out the breath he'd been holding. One second year had begged and begged, until there hadn't been anything for Harry to do but walk away.

"Maybe after winter holidays," had become the standard line that let him escape without completely crushing someone's hopes.

Hermione sighed. "It's not your fault Harry," she said.

"'Course not, mate," Ron said bracingly. He slapped Harry on the back. "There's no way you can teach the whole school how to duel. We've got enough in the DA as it is. Though, if you wanted to replace some of the Slytherins…"

"Ronald," said Hermione.

"Not Zabini, though. I think Seamus wants to keep him."

Harry laughed half-heartedly, and they continued down the corridor.

"Anyway, Harry, everyone does have the option of Snape's defense class. It's enough for most people."

"Uggh…" said Ron. "You had to remind me. D'you think he'll notice if I whisper the spells during the practical this afternoon?"

"Yes," Hermione and Harry said at the same time.

"Uggh… What did you two do this summer anyway? Train with a troupe of ventriloquists?"

[][][][][][]

_From: Zakarias Zate_

_To: My Bothersome Assistant_

_I've been keeping an eye on the paper, and an ear out around the shop. Take some advice from a wise old wizard who's seen more than his share of trouble – watch yourself, boy._

_When it all goes to hell it will happen fast, and you won't be ready._

_That's not a criticism. That's just how it works._

_Books? With the way the wind's blowing, you're going to need a whole library._

_So, I'm sending you one. Use it. (But remember that it doesn't belong to you, if you please!)_

_I hope you know how much trouble you are._

_Z. ZATE_


	33. A Meeting in Hogsmeade

**Chapter 33 - A Meeting in Hogsmeade**

_Hello all. This chapter is the first of this fic that is actually written by me (BekkaJane). What you have been reading up until now was written by the original author, Raining Ink. She has decided to leave fanfiction and chase her dream of being a published author and I wish her the best of luck. I am simply continuing her story and I hope I can do it justice. _

_Short side note: This chapter starts just after the first DA lesson in the last chapter. I know Raining Ink went on a little after that scene, but just bear with me. It will all be back to chronological order by the end of the chapter. I just really wanted a scene where the Slytherins discuss the DA._

[][][][][][]

Draco was lounging on the couch closest to the fire, flipping through the required reading for Snape's next DADA class, when his fellow dark wizards returned from Potter's little defence club. He noted, with no small amount of satisfaction, that neither Daphne nor Astoria looked too impressed with whatever it was they had spent the last two hours doing. For some unfathomable reason, Zabini looked fairly pleased. But then again, Draco thought, knowing Blaise, he probably avoided most of the activities for fear of breaking a nail.

"Let me guess." He drawled. "Someone just spent their evenings listening to Gryffindor diatribe about evil death eaters doing nasty dark magic and how we all have the ability to stop them." He placed a hand over his heart and his eyes went comically wide. "All we have to do is work together and we can accomplish anything"

Astoria rolled her eyes while Daphne and Blaise sat themselves adjacent to Malfoy's sprawled out form.

"I liked it." Blaise noted, catching his reflection in the window and adjusting his hair.

"Blaise was the centre of attention." Daphne explained. "We covered various unbinding charms and his tales of his mother's various customers getting stuck in their corsets were a hit."

Astoria laughed lightly as she swiped at Draco's propped up feet, making him shift around and allow her room to sit. "I think he even almost won over Weasley."

Draco raised an eyebrow and smirked. "What an honour. Unbinding charms?"

Astoria grimaced. "Potter did say we'd get on to better topics later. Dueling and Patroni and whatnot." Draco was still clearly unimpressed. "I think he started with that because the younger years are learning them in Defence at the moment. Besides, they come in handy." Astoria couldn't quite figure out exactly why she seemed to be defending Harry Potter of all people, but she couldn't think of any reason to be hostile towards the Gryffindor who, for some reason, had been nothing but friendly to her as of late. "Have any of you noticed something different about Potter this year?" She asked.

Draco and Blaise didn't answer but Daphne's lips tilted into a slight frown; a sign Astoria recognised as what she liked to call her sister's thinking face.

"He doesn't seem as prejudiced against Sytherins as he usually is, but he's still Potter." She said.

"Of course he is." Draco said, forcing himself not to think of his birthday present lying wrapped up in a spare set of robes in his trunk. _Damn,_ he thought. _I forgot to give him one back._ "People like Potter don't change. Once a prat, always a prat."

Blaise shrugged and Daphne spoke up again.

"I don't see what it matters." She told her sister. "We'll hang out once a week with the DA and then go about our lives. Nothing's changed."

Astoria let the topic slide, but she knew something had indeed changed in Harry Potter. What she couldn't figure out was why.

[][][][][][]

A couple of days later found Harry seated in a corner table of the library an hour before curfew with Ron and Hermione, surrounded by several piles of thick Defence Against the Dark Arts texts. Hermione and Harry were going though the various books looking for pointers on the next few DA lessons while Ron frantically jotted down the last of his Transfiguration essay. It was due tomorrow.

"So thats the patronus, the defensive strategy, and the advanced hexes lesson plans sorted." Hermione said as she slammed one of the massive tomes shut, sending a small puff of dust into the air. "What about the dueling session?"

"Actually," Harry spoke up, "I've been thinking we should do something different."

Hermione looked up in curiosity.

"Ever since the massacre at that dueling competition people have been completely freaked out. If world renowned dueling champions can be slaughtered by a group of third rate Death Eaters, what chance does a bunch of school kids stand?"

"That's the spirit, Harry." Ron piped up.

"I'm serious." Harry said. "We're no where near as good as we've lead ourselves to believe. Everything we did in the DA last year was to pass exams, but there's a hell of a lot more at stake now. Learning how to trade school-grade hexes with only one opponent isn't going to help us if we're surrounded by Death Eaters."

"Are you suggesting we teach spells not covered in the Hogwarts curriculum?" Hermione said. "We'd have to get approval from the teachers."

"Different spells is one thing, different fighting techniques is another. I think we should find some way to practise dueling in a battle-like situation. Taking on more than one opponent, learning strategies to help us if we're out numbered, those kind of things."

Ron looked up from his essay and Hermione's eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"How do we do that?" Ron asked.

"I haven't thought that far ahead." Harry admitted. "I was hoping you guys might have something in mind."

Hermione jotted down a few notes in the margins of her already filled piece of parchment. "I might be able to come up with something. It would take a bit more research though. I don't think we have time tonight." She looked at her watch and then at Madame Pince who had been continuously glancing at them all night, ever suspicious that someone might harm one of her precious books. Harry thought the fact that she suspected Hermione Granger would ever deface a book fully highlighted the extent of the woman's paranoia.

"We still have plenty of time to figure something out." Harry told her. "I think we've done enough for tonight."

Harry started stuffing his notes in his bag as Ron finished scribbling down the last of his essay and rolled up his parchment, looking pleased that the library session was finally over. Hermione sighed and followed Harry's lead, packing up their night's work. As the trio headed out of the library, smiling pleasantly at a scowling Madame Pince, Harry turned the corner and almost slammed into the huge figure coming the other way.

"Oh, Harry. I didn't see you there" Slughorn beamed. "Cutting it a little close with curfew, aren't you?"

"We were just on our way back to the common room, professor." Hermione assured him.

Slughorn chuckled. "Of course you were, Miss Granger. Actually, I'm rather glad I caught you both." He said, completely ignoring Ron. "I wanted to invite you two to dinner with me and a couple of other students. Just a little get together I put on every once in a while. I mentioned it to you a little while ago, didn't I Harry? An old student of mine once dubbed it the 'Slug Club'." He chortled to himself. "Rather clever don't you think?"

Harry glanced at Ron out of the corner of his eye. His friend didn't exactly look all that chuffed at being completely blown off by the professor.

"That sounds great, Professor, but I..."

"Excellent! It's in a month's time in the dungeons. You'll get an official invite soon with all the details. You too, Miss Granger. You'll attend as well?"

Hermione looked uncomfortable. "Oh... well.."

"Fantastic. I look forward to it. I'd better not keep you any longer. Have a good night."

With a glowing smile and a pat on Harry's shoulder, Slughorn took off down the corridor and around the corner. Harry looked after him before turning to Ron and Hermione dubiously.

"Did either of us actually agree to that?" He asked.

"I don't _think_ so." Hermione said.

Ron still looked a little irritated at the man's blatant disregard of him so Harry decided to pacify his mood.

"Well I can always say I let my homework go undone for too long and have to catch up, but I don't think that will work with you, Hermione. You're going to have to pull a sickie."

"Yeah, I can get some puking pastilles from Fred and George if you like." Ron grinned.

Hermione grimaced. "I'm sure I can think of something."

[][][][][][]

The next two weeks passed quickly for Harry, who had finally managed to get a tentative routine in order that allowed him time for homework, friends, quidditch practice, and the occasional trip to the room of requirement under his invisibility cloak for some much needed privacy to conduct some of the rituals he had become accustomed to over the summer. The Ritual of Clarity had become a godsend with all the homework being piled on top of them this year and the seclusion gave him the opportunity to write back Zate and Draco without the fear of curious eyes peeking over his shoulder. He had sent Zate a letter thanking him for sending the library card and promising to return it whenever the apothecary asked. He'd also penned a reply to Draco, expanding his creative writing skills by detailing fanciful stories of his travels. He avoided any Death Eater related topics, having realised that Draco was not willing to discuss such matters in a letter. He did however accept the invitation to meet up with him at Hogsmeade, hoping to breach the topic then. He would have to think of an excuse to get out of going with Ron. Perhaps the redhead's puking pastilles idea could come in handy... or maybe a fever fudge. Less mess.

When Friday came along Harry was in relatively good spirits; a condition that lasted right up until the afternoon Defence Against the Dark Arts class. While Harry hadn't expected Snape to provide enjoyable lessons, he hadn't quite been prepared for the increased animosity the man sent his way. He couldn't figure out if it was because of the mind protection potion keeping the potions master safely out of his head or the fact that his attempt to intimidate the class with high expectations and difficult spells fell flat as Harry had already covered them in the DA that week. The only students who got stuck on the advanced sensory deprivation hex and it's counter curse were non DA members. Ron found great humour in the fact that most of them were Slytherins.

"The old bat has no one to humiliate but his own snakes." He hissed in Harry's ear. Harry too found the sight of Snape almost boiling with frustration at Crabbe's inability to even pronounce the incantation correctly quite funny. Unfortunately for him, Snape seemed to pick up on this and decided that Harry's two-second hesitation when asked a question warranted a detention for not paying attention.

Nonetheless, as the class ended and Harry filed out of the room with the other students, the familiar sense of freedom that came with the end of Friday classes washed over him. Ron convinced him to skip dinner and head out to the pitch with him for some practice exercises. The first game of the year, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, was in a fortnight and both boys were determined to crush the other house. Harry found that the time with Ron was a welcome break from the busy routine he had established. After a quick shower in the change rooms they took off to the kitchens for a late dinner, talking quidditch all the way. Harry welcomed the sense of normalcy that came with discussing the Cannon's chances in the World Cup instead of worrying about whether or not the concealer and charms on his face were still hiding the blue mark on his cheek and how much longer he had until Snape's mind protection potion wore off. Dobby fussed over the two boys incessantly the whole time while the other house elves bustled around the massive kitchen putting together a small feast for them. In the end not even Ron could finish the huge meals and they packed up the left overs and took them to go, assuring the house elves that the food would not go to waste.

The time spent with his friend had Harry looking quite forward to spending the next day with another. The first Hogsmeade weekend had finally arrived and Harry had, somewhat guiltily, purchased some fever fudge from Fred and George the day before. When morning came Harry blearily insisted to a worried Ron to go to Hogsmeade without him. Ron, after a moment's hesitation, consented and told Harry he would bring back something from Honeydukes for him. Once Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus finally cleared the room, Harry donned his invisibility cloak and raced down to the school's front gates. He passed by Filch easily and walked strategically close behind a large group of students so that his footprints - appearing in the snow with seemingly no one making them - went unnoticed.

When he arrived in the little wizarding village Harry made the transformation into Hephaestus Peverell and made his way to the Hog's Head, where he had agreed to meet Draco. The other wizard was already there, seated at a corner booth with a steaming cup of butterbeer.

"Hephaestus!" Draco beamed as he spotted his friend entering the pub. "It's so good to see you."

Harry greeted the blonde and ordered a butterbeer for himself.

"I hope you don't mind my choosing this pub over The Three Broomsticks." Draco told him. "It's not as nice but it's much quieter and it's been a while since we talked. I thought it might be nice if we could actually hear what each other is saying."

"It's great." Harry assured him. "How are your classes?"

Draco scoffed. "Pathetic, as usual. Hogwarts' standards have really gone down since my father attended. Some aren't that bad though. I'm doing quite well in Transfiguration and Arithmancy, and Defence Against the Dark Arts is so much more interesting now that Severus is teaching it."

"Snape is teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts?" Harry feigned surprise. "Who doesn't love irony?"

"A lot of the Gryffindors share your opinion. But at least we're learning useful material now."

Against his will, Harry silently agreed. When it came to competence, Snape was a far cry better than many of their previous defence professors. Now if only he would stop scaring the majority of students away from his class.

Their conversation continued in the same fashion, with both boys swapping stories - Harry's, completely fabricated - of how they had spent the last month. Harry kept looking for opportunities to bring up the topic of Draco's new role at the beck and call of a bald, red-eyed psychopath, but Draco purposefully kept the conversation strictly casual. After their third butterbeer Draco offered to show Harry around Hogsmeade for the first time. Remembering that Hephaestus Peverell had never been to Hogsmeade, Harry politely accepted and the two made their way out into the cold weather.

Harry had to hide his humour as the Slytherin took him all around the small village, through Zonko's and Honeydukes and Spintwitches - the local sporting goods store. The blonde seemed rather excited to have someone to show around. As they made their way past The Three Broomsticks Harry noticed Ron, Hermione, Luna, and Neville exit the crowded pub and make their way in the direction of Honeydukes.

"It would be a bit mean to get him cockroach clusters as a joke, right?" Ron was asking Neville. "I mean, the poor bloke's sick on a Hogsmeade weekend."

"What about some sugar quills... or chocolate cauldrons?" Neville suggested.

Ron looked up as Harry and Draco passed and Draco sent a sneer his way. Ron returned the gesture, but thankfully neither boy seemed in the mood to make a scene. Hermione noticed Harry and only just stopped her eyes from bugging out. Harry grimaced internally. He had forgot to tell her of his plans for today. Ron would have told her he was ill. He broke eye-contact with her. Luna, skipping behind the small group, looked up as they passed as well. She sent a small wave to Harry, almost making him stop dead in his tracks. Could the younger girl somehow recognise him as Harry Potter? He ran a hand over his forehead to make sure the curse scar wasn't there. It wasn't. He was still Hephaestus Peverell. Then why had Luna waved at someone she had never met?

He and Draco kept walking as his friends passed by and Harry felt his initial burst of paranoia pass. Luna was a friendly person. She would be the type to wave at strangers. And even if there was another reason for the show of recognition, Luna had not said anything to blow his cover. He was safe for now. Draco was insisting on taking Harry to see the Shrieking Shack, explaining some of the local history of the supposedly haunted house when he stopped suddenly.

"One moment." He said as he moved toward a quirky little shop filled with various trinkets and nicnacs. "This place sometimes has good stuff."

Harry, slightly stunned at the random change of conversation, followed the blonde into the shop. The shopkeeper, a tall, thin, balding fellow with sunken cheeks and dull eyes came out from the back room and stepped behind the till, watching both boys carefully. Harry thought it was a little unnerving how the man's eyes never left them, but Draco seemed unconcerned. As he followed his friend up and down the isles of junk he couldn't imagine what the Slytherin boy was looking to buy in a shop like this.

"What are you looking for?" Harry asked. Maybe he could help Draco find it and they could get away from the creepy shop-keeper. Since obtaining a second identity and spending several months of relative anonymity in the Wizarding World, Harry had found it more and more disconcerting when people stared at him, particularly when he had no scar to stare at. He couldn't help but briefly check his reflection in the mirror to make sure that the scar was indeed not there.

Draco didn't answer him straight away, but when he came to the last isle without finding what he wanted, he sighed. "I need to buy a belated birthday present."

Harry looked doubtfully at the shelves of rubbish. "I'm guessing you're not too fond of the person you're buying it for."

"I'm not." Draco snorted. "But this place used to have _some_ acceptable stuff."

"Why not just get them something from Honeydukes?"

The look Draco gave him made Harry realise he has somehow managed to offend the boy.

"Sweets?" Draco exclaimed. He lowered his voice and continued. "The bastard got me a freaking Hand of Glory for my birthday, I can't just give him sweets! It's got to be something good." He turned to look at the items displayed in the window. "Something he wouldn't expect... at least not from me."

Harry almost choked trying to hold back his laughter. So Draco was trying to find a birthday present for him? Well, he was right when he said _belated_. Harry's birthday had been three months ago. The blonde heard his failed attempt at stifling a laugh and glared at him.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing." Harry insisted. "It's just that..." he paused, trying to think how to word his statement. "You're so competitive."

Draco huffed.

"You are." Harry laughed. "If you don't like each other, then he's probably not expecting you to get him anything anyway." In truth, Harry knew that if Malfoy went to the trouble of buying him a present, it would be rude not to thank him, and he didn't want to thank Malfoy for anything he bought from this shop. He looked around again with distaste.

"Seriously Draco, just get him some licorice wands or pepper imps or something."

"No."

"What about something from Zonko's?"

Draco seemed to consider it for the briefest of moments, but then shook his head. "He might use it on me."

Harry couldn't help but shake with laughter, and when he realised how much it was annoying the other boy, he laughed harder.

"What?" Draco almost whined. Harry was about to poke a bit more fun at him, but Draco spotted another display case close to the counter and wandered over, but nothing there interested him either. "Don't you have anything _good _here?" He snapped at the man behind the counter. Apparently Harry had made him grumpy. To his credit, the shopkeeper didn't seem to take offense.

"What is it you're looking for?" He asked with a slight welsh accent.

"Something for a cocky, antagonising, sentimental, Gryffindor prat." Draco grumbled. Harry stopped smirking. Cocky and antagonising? _Pot, meet kettle,_ he thought.

The shopkeeper's eyes burrowed in thought. "Sentimental, you say?"

Draco shrugged. "He seems the touchy-feely type."

Harry gave an inaudible huff. _Prat_.

The shopkeeper ducked below the counter and pulled out a small, black pouch. "It's a little plain in appearance," he admitted. "But it could come in handy in times like these."

Curiosity brought Harry up beside Draco and he watched as the man untied the drawstrings and let a small, silver pocket watch fall out.

"It's good quality, I assure you." The shopkeeper insisted.

"It's a watch." Harry said dumbly,

Draco picked it up and pried it open, peering at it's face. "It's a watch without numbers." He didn't seem too impressed either.

Harry looked closer and realised that Draco was right. The watch face had a thin silver line running vertically down the middle. The area to the left looked to be made of white marble and the right, some kind of black stone, but there were no numbers around the edge. A closer inspection showed that the watch had four hands instead of 3.

"It's a keeper's clock." The shopkeeper explained. Harry had no idea what that meant, but 'keeper' made him think of quidditch and if it was anything to do with quidditch he'd probably like it, ven if it was only for keepers, though he couldn't think of any good it would do on the pitch. So not a quidditch thing then. The man continued. "You can charm it to connect to four different people and it will chime when one of them is in peril." He pointed to the four hands. "When one is in danger, their respective hand will be in the black area. The closer their hand is to the three o'clock position, the more danger they are in."

That made more sense than quidditch. Harry was reminded of the clock hanging on the living room wall of the Burrow, with a hand for each Weasley. His mind drifted back to the attack on the Granger's house, and then further back to last year when he had insisted that Sirius was in danger, only to lead the man into danger himself. He could have used something like this back then. He stopped that thought before it could gain too much traction.

"Does that mean the closer their hand is to the 9 o'clock position, the safer they are?" Harry asked.

"Exactly."

The shop-keeper was right. It would be a very handy thing to have.

The two boys exited the shop with slight smiles on their faces. Draco was feeling just a little bit smug to have found a birthday gift for Potter that he was sure the Gryffindor would like just as much as Draco liked the Hand of Glory, and Harry was pleasantly surprised that Malfoy had actually gone to an effort to get him something thoughtful... and not exactly cheap. They continued on to the Shrieking Shack in light conversation and parted ways once they were finished, Draco heading towards Hogwarts and Harry towards the deserted back alley where he could change back to his usual appearance. It was only when Harry was back in the castle - finally warm again and surrounded by sugar quills and chocolate cauldrons, insisting to Ron that he felt fine and it must have been all the homework catching up with him - that that he realised he had forgotten to grill Draco on his Death Eater activities.


End file.
